
Glass-CT* 2 /^/ i 



Gom§tW. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 



BASCOM CLARKE 



The Story of a Southern Refugee 



By 

Charles E. Whelan 




Frontispiece by 
GEORGE W. FRENCH 



THE AMERICAN THRESHERMAN 

Pu b I i s hers 
MADISON, WISCONSIN 






4 



Copyright, 1913 

The American Thresherman 

Madison, Wisconsin 



CANTWELL PRINTING CO., MADISON, WIS. 



/'•'V- 



FEBI5lf Ci 7 393887 



h 



TO THE MEMORY OF HARRIET NOBLE, WHOSE 
MOTHERLY AFFECTION WAS BESTOWED UPON 
THE REFUGEE, AND WHOSE SWEET AND GEN- 
TLE NATURE SEEMED LIKE A BENEDICTION. 



AUTHOR'S NOTE 



Some time ago, Mr. Clarke started to write the story 
of his life under the title, ''The Refugee Boy." He had 
dictated quite a bit of material when, by reason of its 
extreme personal character, he stopped. I rescued that 
manuscript and, using the information therein obtained, 
added to it other facts gathered from him by conversa- 
tion. I visited the scene of his Indiana life and conversed 
with the people to gain new viewpoints of the influences 
surrounding his growth from boyhood to manhood. No 
fictitious name has been used where it was possible to ob- 
tain the real one. By reason of close intimacy with him I 
knew his personal characteristics, and this volume is 
largely a search for the environment and influences whicn 
have made him what he is. If I have accomplished this in 
any degree, and at the same time have made the story to 
any extent as entertaining to others as it was to me, I 
shall be satisfied. I have used his own language wherever 
possible, because of his original and trenchant way of 
putting things as well as to get his survey of conditions 
and results. Thus, it is his story run through my mill 
and the toll of pleasure I have received has abundantly 
repaid the time and effort spent. 

CHARLES E. WHELAN. 
Madison, Wis., August 10, 1913. 



AN APOLOGY 



For years I contemplated publishing the incidents of 
my early life in book form, especially during that period 
when the nation's fate was at stake and I, an orphan, 
alone with God and poverty, found myself in the land 
of my country's enemies, who proved such good friends 
that through their acts, a "reconstructed rebel," whose 
soul had been filled with treason and hatred, came to 
cast his first vote for the Hero of Appomattox. 

While away from business cares a few years ago in 
California, I prepared from memory — a family trait of 
many generations — manuscript containing many incidents 
of my life, which I had intended publishing under a nom 
de plume, and which, stripped of Mr. Whelan's sugar- 
coating, are absolutely true. After completing the manu- 
script, two facts presented themselves : The story, to be 
of interest, could not be disguised, the identity of the sub- 
ject must needs be disclosed. This would have made it 
of so personal a nature that I abandoned the idea. Sub- 
mitting the manuscript for Mr. Whelan's consideration, 
he took possession of it and insisted on clothing it in 
the uniform of a story, instead of a narrative of events. 

I promised the Two Little Sisters — all that are left of 
that once large and happy family — that through them, 
the first five hundred copies should be presented to the 
Daughters of the Confederacy. The second five hundred 
copies are reserved for the survivors of the Third Michi- 
gan Cavalry, whose gallant boys escorted me to the Union 



lines at DeValls Bluff, Arkansas, in '64, and the survivors 
of the Second Indiana Battery who accompanied me as 
far as Cairo on Farragut's gunboats, and thence to Indi- 
ana, both of whom shared with me their haversacks in 
the long ago. 

I have experienced some of the trying scenes of war on 
both sides, and I know something of the price paid in 
precious lives and priceless treasure to wipe out the curse 
of slavery. I have watched with much interest the chang- 
ing of sentiment, from the days of Albion W. Turgee's 
Fool's Errand, to the days when that matchless orator 
and southern gentleman, Henry Watterson, in his dedi- 
cation address, likened Abraham Lincoln unto the Son of 
Man. I have witnessed the healing of the wounds of the 
past, so beautifully exemplified on the fiftieth anniversary 
of Gettysburg, and have in other lands beyond the seas sa- 
luted the flag as it waved triumphantly to the breeze, 
the representative of a reunited nation, without the loss 
of a single star from its diadem. 

BASCOM B. CLARKE. 

Madison, Wis., November 1, 1913. 



Note.— The Colonel Caldwell appearing in the story was in reality Colonel 
Kellogg, the refugee boy having wrongfully caught the name. 



BASCOM CLARKE 



BASCOM CLARKE 



CHAPTER I. 



Thompson's Landing was filled with interest, for the 
Clarkes were going "west." It was in old Virginia, "be- 
fo' the war." For generations the Clarke family had 
held a prominent place in all the affairs of the town and 
state, and seemed as much a part of the country as the 
soil itself. Thus the determination to move was an event, 
not only to those who were to break the old home ties, 
but to the community of which these people had been a 
part. 

Colonel Clarke bore a title granted him by the Governor 
of Virginia for services in connection with the Lexington 
Military Academy, in which he had been an instructor 
after receiving his education there. He had that dignified 
military bearing which not only brought him the courtesy 
of the ordinary citizen, but marked him in the eyes of the 
stranger as a man of distinguished characteristics. But 
even the Colonel was compelled to stand in the shadow 
of Grandfather Clarke, a veteran of the War of 1812. 

In that war "Grandfather," as he was known to every- 
body in the village, had marched, bivouacked and fought 
side by side with his brother Americans of the North, 
never dreaming of the time when there should be an ar- 
raignment of the one against the other in bloody frati- 
cidal strife. To this influence probably may be traced 
the strong union sentiment which obtained in the Clarke 
family even when the fortunes of a part of them were 
cast with their states on the Confederate side. Having 
fought side by side with them the old man did not share 
the common Southern boast that the "Yankees" pos- 

i [1] 



sessed a different fighting quality than the " Johnnies " 
Had there been as many veterans of the War of 1812, at 
that time, as there were of the Civil War later, their esti- 
mate of each other would not have been left to theory or 
tradition, but would have been positive beyond doubt. 
The influence of these men might have stemmed the tidal 
wave set in motion by designing politicians which resulted 
in the War of the Rebellion. People can see you better if 
you are fanning a flame and adding fuel to it than if you 
are stamping it out to prevent a conflagration. Grand- 
father Clarke never consented to an array of one section 
of the country against another under different flags. 

The Clarke family held "niggers" — not in the number 
demanded by a big plantation, but sufficient to the needs 
of town dwelling people. There was no thought of any 
great moral wrong in this ownership, either on the part 
of the owner or the slave. It was a part of a system which 
had so grown into the lives of the people, that negro ser- 
vants were as much a part of the home atmosphere as the 
family itself. In most instances, especially with relation 
to personal servants, the care and affection bestowed upon 
them was equal to that given the members of the imme- 
diate family. These servants had no idea they were being 
wrongfully held, nor did they fret under the subjection 
to their white masters. The little colored boys played 
with the white boys at their games, and naturally yielded 
to their young masters. Obedience was given as a matter 
of course. 

Cruelty to a negro slave was no more frequent than 
cruelty to apprentices under the old bond system of the 
North. The exaggerated pictures of extreme conditions 
which inflamed the Northerners could have been dupli- 
cated by the pen of Harriet Beecher Stowe in almost any 
part of New England, where a boy was bound out to a 
master until he was twenty-one years of age. And that 
system of bondage then was just as prevalent in the North 
as the holding of slaves was in the South, although the 
number of bound apprentices and servants was not as 
large as the number of slaves in the South. It has been 

[2] 



true in all of the past and probably will be true in all 
the years to come that all the people can not be trusted 
with the custody and control of the persons of other peo- 
ple without resulting abuses. 

AVhen the makers of the Federal constitution were 
given the opportunity to do away with slavery in the 
United States, by so loyal a son of the South as Thomas 
Jefferson, and rejected it, there can be little wonder that 
the ordinary people accepted it as a fixture and regulated 
their entire lives with it as a part, having no thought that 
in so doing they were wronging anybody. They took a 
condition as it was given to them, with the sanction of the 
very makers of the government, and that condition could 
not be changed afterwards without a reconstruction of 
the very fabric of social and civic life. 

"Old Sol" and "Aunt Louise," though slaves, consid- 
ered themselves just as much a part of the Clarke family 
as any other members; and in fact, if it were given to 
either of them to choose, they would have considered them- 
selves of so much importance that the family could not 
properly exist without them. And, on the other hand, the 
family would have been lost in a hopeless maze of con- 
fusion had these two colored people suddenly taken it into 
their heads to decamp. But they had grown up in the 
household and the " Gunnel" and the "Missus" were to 
them the wisest people on earth, "excepting of course, the 
old Marse and Missus," now known all around as Grand- 
father and Grandmother Clarke, by whom they had been 
raised, and from whom they came down to the possession 
of the Colonel. 

This was the atmosphere in which Bascom Clarke began 
his existence. He was six years old when the family 
finally came to the decision to move. His father, the Colo- 
nel, was a surveyor, and the Grandfather, holding a land 
warrant from the government for services in the War of 
1812, decreed that they would go to the great state of 
Texas, obtain his tract of land and make a new home. 
The Colonel would find much to do in his profession and 
the children would have a greater opportunity than they 

[3] 



could possibly have in the Old Dominion. It was in the 
days when fathers did not lose their place entirely with 
the growth to manhood of the son, and the son did not 
refuse to respect the wishes of his father simply because 
he had grown beyond his legal right to dictate. Besides, 
the plan was attractive and gave great promise. 

To the older folk the move was a serious matter, one to 
be measured and calculated for, but to the children it was 
a frolic. A long, long journey overland through a strange 
country would be in the nature of a holiday excursion, 
with no thought on their part of a burden of responsibility 
carried by the elders. 

Little Bascom literally grew fat on the excitement of 
preparation. He was here, there and everywhere, under- 
foot this moment and not to be found the next, grabbed 
out from under the horses' hoofs and put in a place of 
safety only to be narrowly rescued from the wheels of 
the wagon. It would be about this time that the grand- 
mother would call : 

"Bascom Clarke, come heah this instant !" 

And Bascom would go. The grandmother was never 
disobeyed. She had so ruled her own household that im- 
mediate and unquestioned obedience was given her by 
everybody. Even Grandfather, an old school master, 
used as he was to guiding the wayward and impatient 
youth through the mazes of " reading writm' and 'rith- 
metic ' ' with the aid of a stout hickory stick, never thought 
of going contrary to the mandate of his spouse. She was 
a woman born and bred to rule, and yet so gentle and 
sympathetic as to be universally beloved. Her rare judg- 
ment was appealed to in all the problems of the family, 
while in sickness no one in all the community could equal 
her in nursing the stricken one. Had she been a man she 
might have been one of Virginia's contributions to the 
presidency of the nation, but, being a woman, she was 
content with the loving homage of her family and friends 
and the opportunity to influence the community toward 
right things. She was intensely devout, saturated with 
the word and spirit of the Bible, and believed in teaching 

[4] 



children the lessons which the Good Book contains. And 
they learned verses and chapters from the beginning of 
Genesis to the last of Revelations, not only her own chil- 
dren but her children's children, and even her slaves. 

This grandmother, practically all the time and particu- 
larly at this time of confusion, took personal charge of 
Bascom while she watched the detail of all that was going 
on, now and then giving directions. Her heart was al- 
ready touched with homesickness as she noted the old 
family property, too heavy or cumbersome to take, pass 
under the hammer, and realized that she was seeing the 
last of her girlhood's and young wifehood's estate. Yet 
she jealously guarded and shielded the little lad and had 
time to amuse him in her ow T n way. She told him stories, 
most of them, it is true, being narratives plucked from the 
Bible, but she invested them with a charm and romance 
which made them vividly interesting. 

The morning of departure came. The night before 
everything had been put into the wagons except the last 
few things. Notwithstanding the earliness of the hour 
nearly the entire population of the village of Thompson's 
Landing was on hand to give parting cheer to the Clarkes. 
More than one eye was dimmed with moisture and the 
tears streamed down Grandmother's cheeks. The day 
before had been especially hard for her. Realizing the 
probability that never again would she see the little town 
which had been to her a home for so long, and appreciat- 
ing the fact that she was meeting for the last time those 
people of whose lives she had been a part, many of wiiom 
had been her girlhood friends, she choked up with her 
emotion. Little Bascom looked on with wonderment at 
her. He climbed into her lap and put his arms around her 
neck, trying in his way to assuage her grief. She hugged 
him close to her and smoothing his hair back she said : 

"You don't understand, honey. You don't understand, 
but sometime maybe you will." 

And years afterwards he looked heavemvard, as he saw 
in his memory the white-haired old lady's face, and softly 
said: 

[5] 



4 'Yes, oh, yes! I understand. ' ' 

As many of the family as could be were placed in the 
carryall. These included the women and smaller chil- 
dren with the Colonel driving the two big bay horses. The 
only other rig was the heavy canvas-covered lumber 
wagon, drawn by two mules. In this were the provisions, 
cooking utensils, clothing, bedding and such things as 
were not sold because of their intimate association with 
the family. Uncle Sol and Aunt Louise were in charge of 
this latter rig, the former riding the near mule and the 
latter occupying the seat in front where she could give 
her "ol' nigger man" the benefit of her superior feminine 
knowledge of how he should conduct himself. 

As the road wound around on a curve all turned to 
take a last look at the old familiar scenes. As they did 
so a little black figure was noted plowing along in the 
dust of the middle of the road quite a ways back, but fol- 
lowing. Bascom was the first to discover the identity of 
the pedestrian: 

"It's Sammy, Grandmother! It's Sammy!" 

Sammy was one of the little slaves with whom Bascom 
used to play, and who was as devoted as a squire to his 
knight. 

The teams were halted and waited until the little fellow 
came up. 

"Let him in, Grandma! Let him in!" cried Bascom. 

"No, Bascom, he can't some. He doesn't belong to us." 

"Yes, he does! Ain't he always belonged to us? He's 
my sorrel horse, Grandma, and I want him here with me. 
Come on, Sammy ! ' ' 

He jumped up and down and wriggled to get free to 
join his playmate, who, by this time, was up with the 
wagons, a most forlorn and pitiable object. Great tears 
had been running down his face and mingling with the 
dust of the highway. His general dejected appearance 
would have been amusing to the older ones did it not 
denote one of the eternal tragedies of life, separation. 

"No, honey," said Grandma, "He can't come with us. 
He isn't our nigger any mo' and he must go back." 

[6] 



"But I want him, Grandma," and the boy broke down 
at the thought of leaving him behind. "I ain't got no- 
body to drive, an' there ain't nobody min's the rein like 
he does. Let him come." 

"No, son," said the Colonel. "He doesn't belong to us 
and we can't take him." Then, turning to Sammy, he 
told him he must go back. He did it kindly and with a 
sympathy in his voice, but with a firmness which left no 
doubt that the action was final. The pickaninny looked 
at his young "marse" with mournful eyes, and Bascom 
screamed with anguish, which all the efforts of his grand- 
mother failed to check. The Colonel spoke again, the 
black boy slowly turned and made his way down the road 
toward town and the cavalcade again took up its long 
journey. It was hours before Bascom could be brought 
to a cheerful mood. He continually called for Sammy, 
until at last he fell asleep. The Grandmother kissed the 
tear-stained cheeks and held the boy closely in her arms. 

"He don' understand," she said, "and sometime I feel 
that I don' understand, either. But 'God moves in a 
mysterious way His wonders to perform.' What I don't 
understand I leave to him." 

The Colonel spoke up : 

"It will be solved some day, Mother, and, as you say, 
in God's own time, but it's going to take a surgical opera- 
tion by a Master Hand to do it. God grant that in the 
operation the country may survive. The man up North 
who is demanding emancipation of the blacks can't know 
conditions nor measure consequences. To thrust these 
people into immediate freedom without adequate guard- 
ianship, those who have never known responsibility, who 
have never carried an independent burden, would result 
in chaos, confusion and as near an approach to hell as it 
is possible to imagine. With ages of barbarism and cen- 
turies of slavery as their only environment he who ex- 
pects them to qualify for an important part in the civil- 
ization of the world, without preliminary training and 
long guiding of their feet in the right road, is visionary 
indeed." 

[7] 



"Yes, James, I know," responded the Grandmother, 
"but if the time is comin' when the system which we-all 
have had with us in the South for all our days shall be 
changed, isn't it the duty of all of us to do what we can 
to prepare these people for that change ? They are nothin' 
but children and should be treated as such. I thank God 
that no niggah of mine has failed to be taught right liv- 
ing. Take Solomon and Louise there in the other wagon. 
I have had the trainin' of them nearly all my life. The 
fact that there was a deed which conveyed them to me as 
property did not lessen my duty to them, and I have 
tried to teach them integrity and morality. You wouldn't 
say they could not take their place as free people and not 
be an influence for right living. No! You may say they 
are the exception. That may be true. But, if so, is not 
that the fault of the people who have had the custody and 
control of these people all these years? If environment 
is the thing which counts, we who create the environment 
for them are responsible if it be not such as tends toward 
cleanly lives." 

Just then little Bascom awoke and called for Sammy. 



£8] 



CHAPTER II. 

Night had fallen in the Cumberland mountains, after a 
long, hard day's drive, most of the way up hill. Every- 
body was tired, for all who could had walked a large 
part of the way to ease the load on the horses. On either 
side of the road was a dense and seemingly impenetrable 
forest, with an occasional break where some mountain 
stream crossed the way. The great wood-clad domes so 
shut in the valley that the sun was lost long before time 
for the day to close. Hence, when a clearing was found 
which would make a good camping place it was nearly 
dark. Aunt Louise kindled a fire and went back to a creek 
they had just crossed to get water for the coffee. Uncle 
Sol unhitched the horses and cared for them. The grand- 
father and the Colonel unhitched the mules and staked 
them out for the night. The women folks got out the bed- 
ding and made it ready. The children ran about in play, 
the older ones helping with the preparations. Each was 
so busy that it was some time before Mrs. Clarke turned 
from her work and said : 

"Why, where is Aunt Louise V 9 

Sure enough the fire was going and the cooking things 
there at hand but the old colored woman was nowhere to 
be found. They called to her and, receiving no answer, 
a hasty search was made in the direction of the stream 
to which she had gone, but no trace of her could be found. 
Darkness was coming on rapidly and soon the shadows 
were so deep that it was impossible to see ahead any great 
distance. A few mountaineers' cabins scattered along 
were the only human habitations passed during the day 
and the possibility of finding the woman in such a wilder- 
ness seemed remote indeed. Grandfather took the old 
flint-lock musket which he carried in the War of 1812 and 
made a detour of the camp, continually calling and now 

[9] 



and then firing the gun. Colonel Clarke took the big 
Colt's revolver and followed in a still wider circle. Both 
came back with no news. Some mountaineers who had 
been attracted by the camp and drawn also by the shots, 
joined in the general search which was prosecuted all 
night, each man keeping as closely in touch with his 
neighbor as possible, but all effort failed. At daybreak 
she was still missing. 

A hasty supper had been prepared by the women folk. 
The elders ate but little in their worriment, but the chil- 
dren developed a hunger fully as strong as usual. Then 
they were put to bed and soon forgot all their troubles. 
While the men hunted the two Madames Clarke kept 
vigil around the campfire. When the grandfather and 
the Colonel reached the camp after one of their tours, 
tired and discouraged, Grandmother dropped to her knees 
and prayed the Father to protect the servant and restore 
her to them. It was the eloquent prayer of absolute 
faith, and out there in the solitude of the mountains, 
where the grandeur and majesty of God's handiwork were 
on every hand, and where it seemed human effort must be 
unavailing, each felt the inspiration of the great silence. 
As the prayer of this good woman was lifted up, the sin- 
cerity and helplessness of the appeal must move the In- 
finite Power to come, and, indeed, they could almost feel 
the touch of the Comforter. Her voice was broken with 
the sobs of her great emotion and the tears streamed down 
her cheeks. None could doubt either her faith in God or 
her love for her servant. When she arose from her knees 
she simply said : 

"God is good!" 

Uncle Sol, dazed by the calamity which had befallen 
his helpmeet, and not knowing what to do, did nothing 
but walk up and down and wring his hands. He got up 
from his knees after the prayer and shouted: 

"Praise de Lawd!" 

When day broke the search was prosecuted with re- 
newed vigor. The horses were mounted and parties went 
in every direction. But still no sign of the lost one. Sud- 

[10] 



denly, from the direction of the creek, there came Aunty 
with a pail of water in her hand and another on her head. 
Mother Clarke was the first to reach her and the w r ater 
flew in all directions as she hugged her. Then everybody 
made a rush and she was hugged and kissed. Even the 
Colonel and Grandfather put their arms around her and 
told her how glad they were that she had been restored 
to them. The children climbed into her arms by turns 
and clung to her skirts. 

"Bress de Lawd ! Bress de Lawd!" she said. "Bress 
deLawd! I's foun' my folks!" 

The signal guns were fired and from far and near came 
the searching parties. They all pressed her for her story, 
but she said : 

"I ain't got time to tell you-all now. I's got to get 
breakfast right away." 

Both the grandmother and mother told her to rest, that 
they would get the meal, but she would not have it. Her 
place was at the fire and she wouldn't have the "miss- 
esses" spoiling their hands w T ith the cooking. So she set 
to work, and such a meal as was served to the tired party : 
bacon, fried apples, coffee and white bread. When it 
was ready all knelt while Grandmother lifted her voice 
in a prayer of thanksgiving. Her deep earnestness af- 
fected everyone, and Aunty would break in with: 

"Bress de Lawd! Bress de Law T d!" 

When breakfast was over and the preparations were 
made for moving on, the old colored woman told her story : 

"Af'r I got de water I foun' some chink nuts [chin- 
quabin] an' I fought dey would be fin' foh de chillen. 
An' den I stopped to get 'em, an' af'r I'd picked 'em, I 
tu'ned 'roun' an' de creek wan't whah I left it. An' I 
hunted an' hunted, an' couldn't fin' it. An' I kept hunt- 
in' an' huntin', an' it got dahk, an' I got scaihed. Den I 
run dis way an' den I run dat way, an' bimeby I knowed 
I waslos'. An' I kep' goin' tell mah laigs wouldn't go 
no mo'. An' I fell down 'side a log. An' I was scaihed 
de bears an' painters 'd git me. An' den I 'membered 
ol' missus used to read to us out en de Bible dat de Lawd 

[ii] 



was always wid us, an' I prayed an' prayed an' prayed. 
I said, 'Oh, Lawd, I bin los' an' I can't fin' mah folks, an' 
I's scaihed, an' I's run an' run an' run, an' I can't run no 
mo', an' I's tiyud out, an' dere ain't nobody can do nuffin 
foh me 'cept You. An' You-all know mah ol' missus, an' 
I wants to fin' huh, an' I can't fin' her 'less You-all '11 
show me how. I know You-all know my ol' missus, Lawd, 
'cause she talks to yuh ebery day. It's de Clarke folks 
I wan' tuh fin', Lawd, an' dey is quality folk from ol' 
Vi'ginny, an' dey is somewhah on de road, an' dey am 
camped foh de night. An' I must fin' 'em, Lawd, 'cause 
dey-all won't have nothin' to eat outen I get dah. An' 
dey need me, Lawd, an' I needs dem, an' we-all needs 
each udder. An' my ol' niggah man, Solomon, he needs 
me, 'cause he jes' nach'ly mek a ol' fool o' hisse'f ef I 
ain't dah to tek cayah o' hem. An' I aint' got nowhah 
to go, Lawd, an' I don't know what to do, so You-all '11 
hev to tell me. Foh missus' sake fin' me, Lawd, 'cause 
I'm los' an' she worry 'bout me, an' I wants my folks, 
Amen.' An' den I felt jes' laik I'd et er meal o' vittles, 
an' I laid down 'side de log an' went to sleep." 

"But didn't you hear the guns, Aunty?" some one 
asked. 

"Yess, dem shootin' an' bangin' kep' wakin' me up all 
de time, an' I was scaihed tell I 'membered de Lawd wuz 
doin' things to fin' me, an' I wanted to give Him time. 
Didn't He have to go an' fin' whah my folks was, an' den 
fin' how I twisted 'roun' in de woods befoh He came back 
to show me de way out? I guess dis ol' niggah woman 
got some min' yet. He jes' nach'ly tol' me tuh go tuh 
sleep an' wait tell mornin', an' den He'd see about it. 
An' den, when de mawnin' was heah, an' I knowed I'd 
have tuh get breakfast foh yuh-all, an' I jes' let de Lawd 
tell me which way tuh go, an' I wasn't 'cited, noh scaihed, 
an' I jes' walked back tell I foun' de buckets, an' got 
some fresh watah an' come home. Dat's all." 

And who shall say that the prayer of this simple minded 
slave woman, joined with the prayer of her mistress for 

[12] 



her safety, did not move the Almighty to intervene, pro- 
tect her and bring her back to her people? 

The wagons were packed and after bidding the friendly 
mountaineers good-bye, with many expressions of grati- 
tude to them for their help, the wagons creaked along the 
mountain road again toward the west. Aunt Louise, proud 
beyond measure of the stir she had created and the im- 
portance she had acquired by her experience, occupied her 
place on the front seat of the wagon, and proceeded to 
make Uncle Sol feel his insignificance by her comments. 

"Why didn't yuh-all come an' git me, 'stead o' lettin' 
me stay out dah in de woods all night?" was her first shot. 

"Why," quavered Sol, from the back of the near mule, 
"Why, I didn't know whah yuh-all was, an' I didn't know 
whah to go." 

"Yuh-all didn't cayuh, dat's all. Me outen dah in de 
woods tellin' de Lawd all about yuh, an' yuh-all jes' 
havin' a good time! Dat's what comes o' mawyin' a 
Ca'olina niggah anyhow. Dey nevah hev no sense." 

Silence from the driver. 

"Why didn't yuh-all come lookin' fer me, laik yuh did 
when yuh was courtin'? Ain't I as good foh yuh now as 
I was den? Prob'ly yuah min' was on some o' dem yaller 
gals back dah, an' yuh didn't cayuh 'f I nevah got back, 
er 'f I was all et up by dem varmints. ' ' 

"Why, Louise," began Solomon. 

"Don't talk back to me, niggah! I know yuh-all too 
well. I specks yuh went 'roun' dah las' night wid a long 
face, an' made 'em all think yuh was mou'nin'. Yuh-all 
am jes' waitin' fuh me tuh die, dat's what yuh is, an' I 
knows it." 

"Dey's one thing shuah," retorted Sol from his vantage 
point, "yuh-all tongue '11 be runnin' foh a long time afteh 
yuh is dead, an' if it spits ez much fiah den ez it do now 
dey may make a mistake as to which place dey take yuh !" 

It was a good thing for Solomon that he was far enough 
away from Louise to prevent her reaching him, after this 
dose of cannister. So she changed her tactics, and used 
the usual woman's weapon of tears. 

[13] 



"Yass, I knowed it. Dat shows yuh-all don' cayuh 'f 
I'm livin' or dead, an' I ben doin' everything foh yuh all 
dese yeahs," she sobbed. "I wish de beahs 'd et me up. 
Dat's what I do. Bein' los' all night, an' den come back 
tuh be 'bused," and she wailed and rocked herself back 
and forth in her grief. 

Of course this was more than Solomon could stand, and 
he began to pacify her as best he could, realizing that his 
last speech was rather beyond the bounds of gallantry. It 
was seldom he turned, but when Aunt Louise got started 
on one of her talking streaks, with him as the object of 
attack, she usually kept on until he fired red hot shot in 
retaliation. Then they spent hours in patching up. Usu- 
ally he kept silence, scarcely commenting on his action, 
either in defense or explanation. She would keep up a 
run of musket fire until she happened to hit him in some 
exposed part, and then he would respond with artillery. 
Then the soothing balm would be applied to her injured 
feelings. 

"Did I tell yuh, Louise, dat de Kunnel said I could get 
yuh a new dress when we got to Nashville, honey?" he 
asked. 

"I don't want no new dress," was the sulky response. 

"An' it's goin' to be red, and have yaller ribbons to 
fly all 'round on it," continued Sol. 

"De Kunnel nevah said it," slowly came forth. 

"An' when yuh have hit on jes' think how proud I'll 
be when we walk down de street in de face ob dat po' 
white trash an' Tennessee niggahs." 

"When we gwine ter get to Nashville, Solomon?" 



[14] 



CHAPTER III. 

AVhen camp was made one night, on a bold promontory 
above the White River, it was little thought by any that 
they had reached the end of their journey. Texas was 
still a long ways off, and they were in the wilds of Arkan- 
sas. All day long they had been following the bends of 
the river, now on the bottoms and then on the highlands 
where the river wound below them like a great silver 
ribbon. Some of the waterways of the world are more 
famous for their scenery, and yet none can excel for 
majestic sweep and picturesque shore the White of Ar- 
kansas. And especially was this true in the time before 
the war, and before the heavy forests had given way to 
the woodsman's axe. More than once that day, when the 
horses had been stopped for a breathing spell, the travel- 
ers had been inspired to exclaim at the picture spread at 
their feet. As night came on a fit place was found for 
camp under some wide-sprfcading trees. Good grazing 
was near for the animals, and a little stream tumbling 
down hill to the river furnished water. 

Aunty had lighted her fire, and the coffee pot was al- 
ready yielding its rich perfume when there came two 
quick shots echoing from tree to tree and a magnificent 
deer fell dead in the very midst of the campers. Before 
they could recover from their surprise there came tearing 
out of the woods the following hunter. Somewhat taken 
back at finding the place occupied by people he never- 
theless was possessed of native gentility. Reining in his 
horse he took off his hat and said : 

"I shot a buck; but I reckon I didn't get him!" 

"I reckon you did," responded the Colonel. ''There 
he is." 

The stranger dismounted, and going up to the party 
extended his hand to the colonel : 

[15] 



"I am Bob Crockett, suh, grandson of old Davy Crock- 
ett. I live close by here, and I would be delighted to have 
you-all as my company while you stay." 

"And my name is Clarke, suh," answered the Colonel, 
warmly accepting the greetings, "Colonel James F. 
Clarke, from Vuhginyuh, and we are on our way to 
Texas." 

"Bob" was then presented to the rest of the family, 
and from this casual meeting there sprang a friendship 
which lasted so long as there was alive a Crockett or a 
Clarke. Who had not heard of Davy Crockett and his 
tragic defense of the Alamo ? And here was his grandson, 
not only righteously proud of his lineage but a fit repre- 
sentative of the stock. Strong, lithe, supple, with a frank, 
genial personality, in an instant he not only had the ad- 
miration but the confidence of all. 

Although the Colonel demurred at burdening him with 
the family, Crockett pressed his hospitality with such 
eager earnestness that in a short time his invitation was 
accepted and the prospect of again feeling floor boards 
under the feet and sleeping in real beds put everybody 
in god humor. 

Bob Crockett's home was not a pretentious affair, but 
that it was the abode of happiness and hospitality was 
apparent the moment the party entered. Few men would 
have the temerity to impose upon his house unannounced 
such a party as Bob took into his home that night. But 
"Aunt Mollie," as she came to be known afterwards by 
the Clarkes, added a welcome to that of her husband 
which left no doubt of its genuineness in the minds of 
her guests. Bob's mother, a splendid type of well pre- 
served American womanhood, joined her daughter-in-law 
in the courtesies of the occasion, and took to her particu- 
lar charge Grandmother Clarke, thus beginning a friend- 
ship which lasted so long as they were alive. 

While Bob was not rich he owned a good farm and 
enough hands to work it, but to a man with his nervous 
energy the life of a planter would be too tame. He had 
been well educated, and especially trained for the law, 

[16] 



which proi'ession he was supposed to follow and in which 
he would have made a success had he devoted his time 
and energy to it. But he filled his life so full of all the 
affairs of the community that he had little time to devote 
either to his plantation or his profession. 

It is true that he had served as public prosecutor and 
by his relentless administration of that office became a 
terror to evil doers. This office, however, was a political 
position and came to him as Bob Crockett the politician 
rather than Bob Crockett the lawyer, although he was 
especially qualified to fill it from a professional stand- 
point and as a lover of law and order. His heart went 
into all work he did, and while he would prosecute with 
vigor, and his fiery eloquence would cause the offenders 
to cringe and writhe, yet he was the first to extend a help- 
ing hand to the one who really evinced a desire to reform 
and lead a correct life. It was told of him in later life 
that he had obtained a verdict of guilty against a man 
who, during a quarrel, had shot and killed another, and 
the prisoner was given a year in jail. Bob, becoming con- 
vinced afterwards that the man had acted in self defense, 
secured his pardon on his own recommendation. When 
the war broke out this man w r as one of the first to enlist 
in Bob's regiment and fought under him during the con- 
test between the states. 

The mental picture, which unconsciously comes to all, 
of Davy Crockett, the pioneer — rough, hard and power- 
ful of physique — was not borne out in the descendant. 
Bob was slender in figure, dapper in vesture, and with 
feet so small he could wear his wife's shoes without diffi- 
culty. In his younger days he had run for a time under 
rather a reckless head of steam, but had been converted 
through the ministrations of a circuit rider whose force, 
logic and earnestness had brought Bob up standing face 
to face with his duty and responsibility to God and his 
fellow men. Nothing was ever done half way by Bob, 
once he started, and following his conversion he was wont 
often to use his splendid intellect and eloquence as a lay 
preacher. 

2 [17] 



Though affable and gentle as a woman under ordi- 
nary circumstances, he was a veritable flame of passion 
when aroused. He would follow an enemy implacably 
and indefatigably, but would reach out his hand in for- 
giveness at the first show of amends. Everybody re- 
spected him, and those who were privileged to get close 
to him loved him. The humblest and blackest negro in 
the community would have crawled on his hands and 
knees to serve Bob Crockett and considered himself 
blessed of God to have the privilege, while the wealthiest 
planter in Arkansas was honored to call him his friend. 
His advice was sought and freely given on every sort of 
problem that comes to either individual or community in 
a place like Mount Adams. He knew more life stories, 
and had helped to solve more complex situations than is 
usually given to one man. Whether it was love, business 
or political affairs which needed adjustment, the appeal 
usually got to him in the last analysis at least. 

He was a walking encyclopedia on nearly every topic 
on which information was desired. His wide experience, 
broad reading, keen observation and quick intuition made 
him indeed a fit court of last resort. He was equally 
adept at determining the value of a hand in poker or 
passing upon the relative merits of the Old and New 
Testaments. He could run a horse race to the satisfac- 
tion of all concerned and conduct a Sunday school with 
all the dignity and reverence of the sincere and devout 
man he was. He could fight a duel if the provocation 
were sufficient or sit by the bedside of a sick man and 
with tender, sympathetic touch alleviate the pain. He 
could discourse with the learned stranger on the phil- 
osophy of Socrates or the proper translation of Egyptian 
hieroglphics or tell the little boy how to fashion his kite 
so that it would fly. He could write a dissertation on 
political economy with one hand and tickle a baby into 
merry laughter with the other. 

Money to him was valuable only as a rapidly circulat- 
ing medium for the benefit of others. Generous to a fault, 
he was quick to resent imposition when it became ap- 

[18] 



parent to him, but just as prone to fall for the same game 
when the next appeal was made. He had no use for a 
whiner, but his help went to the person in hard luck 
before it was asked. This is the kind of a man who had 
quickly measured the quality of the Clarkes and extended 
to them the hospitality of his home. 

On the broad chimney, above the fireplace, the place of 
honor in a Southern manor, hung an old flint-lock rifle. 
It was Davy Crockett's " Betsy,' ' the gun which is inti- 
mately associated with the pioneer life of the old scout 
and Indian fighter. It was taken down, passed around 
and admired by the guests, and the prowess and char- 
acter of its former distinguished owner commented upon. 
The elder Mrs. Crockett had known "Davy" well, and 
her story of his life and deeds, told then and afterwards 
in the presence of Bascom, made a lasting impression on 
him. This was the time when the stories of border life 
and Indian warfare, fresh in the minds of their immediate 
ancestors, were told the children by the older folk and 
written into harrowing tales read with avidity by both 
old and young. 

In the evening, "Bob" Crockett, the Colonel and the 
Grandfather talked long and earnestly, the first of the 
possibilities in that immediate region and the last two 
of their hopes on leaving Virginia for the West. 

"Why go to Texas?" asked Bob. "Right heah is just 
as good land as you can find out doors, I reckon, and it 
can be had from the government for the asking. You are 
a surveyor, Colonel, and there's not a better spot for a 
town than on this bluff. You can see there is a natural 
place for a landing down there, and the city will be lo- 
cated far enough up so that high water will not affect it. 
This river is navigable all the year and there is plenty 
of cotton to go down and plenty of supplies to go back. 
This place ought to be as good a location as any on the 
river. Take a day or two off from your journey and look 
around and I believe you will not go farther." 

The next day and the next and two or three others were 
spent in looking over th field, with the result that the 

[19] 



Clarke family settled. They took up their government 
claims and purchased still more land with the gold that 
Grandfather had obtained from the sale of his govern- 
ment warrants earned by him in the national military 
service. 

Mount Adams, as the place was called, began to thrive, 
in fact it had a boom. Corner lots in the business dis- 
trict brought good prices, and soon a dry goods "empo- 
rium," a grocery store and refreshment stand combined, 
a ten pin alley and "grocery" opened for business. Boats 
stopped at the landing to discharge their cargoes on the 
up-trip and take on their load of cotton and produce re- 
turning. There was plenty of work for everybody, with 
the usual proviso that no one ever did anything a "nig- 
ger" could do. All the rough labor and much that re- 
quired even higher skill was done by the slaves. 

The town seemed destined to a stable and prosperous 
future. "With its rapid growth there came as the usual 
natural accompaniment of those days gambling, horse- 
racing for high stakes, and some of the grosser evils found 
in the wake of sporadic prosperity. "While churches were 
built it must be admitted that they had meager attend- 
ance although liberally supported. There was no public 
school. Such a thing as that was scarcely known at that 
time in the South. Not even a private school found a 
place among the enterprises of the village for several 
years. Each family was supposed to look after the edu- 
cation of its own members. And the necessity for educa- 
tion did not then appeal to these people as it would in 
the present day. All round them were examples of men 
who had made money with scarcely any book knowledge. 
They had learned to read and to figure, and shrewdness 
in business matters counted more than mental train- 
ing. The plantations were little kingdoms, and were 
measured by the number of "niggers" it took to run 
them. 

Saturday afternoon was the time for a general meeting 
of the planters of the neighborhood. Every available 
hitching post was occupied, most of them with saddle 

[20] 



horses, a few with pretentious rigs when the women folk 
vouchsafed that they would come into town to do a little 
shopping and gossiping on that day. Nearly every plan- 
tation had some fine racing stock in its stables, and the 
merits of each was known throughout all the country. 
Once in a while a new horse with fast proclivities would 
be brought into the neighborhood, and immediate and 
genuine interest was shown in its possible speed. The 
favorites were backed liberally and those who sought to 
wrest their honors from them were usually compelled to 
do it with a good fat bank roll as a condition precedent. 
Money flowed as freely as the contents of the barrels in 
the "grocery," where Colonel James Thomas Upshire 
Hawkins presided. 

These Saturday afternoons also furnished a forum for 
the discussion of politics, not the local affairs which might 
be disposed of in a breath, but the broad national ques- 
tions which just then were holding tense the relation be- 
tween the northern and southern sections of the country. 
The great gulf of thought and interest which intervened 
between these two parts of the Union was as well illus- 
trated in this little community as anywhere else. The 
conservative thinkers were also conservative talkers, ex- 
cept in rare instances, while the hotheaded fire brands 
spread flames of passion recklessly in every direction. 

Hawkins' grocery was usually the scene of the debates, 
although the word debate can hardly be applied, as the 
sentiments expressed were nearly always toward one end, 
though by different routes. Hawkins, between acts of 
ministering to the thirst of the assembled land barons, 
would interject a pointed comment which sometimes 
caused a general laugh at the expense of one or more of 
the disputants. 

"Some day those folks up Nawth '11 fin' out this inter- 
ferin' with ouah property is mighty serious business," 
said old Dave Watson, just after the latest news of the 
congressional discussion then going on had been read 
from the Memphis paper. "What right have they to tell 
us now what to do with the niggers? They helped us get 

[21] 



'em in the fust place, an' then because they couldn't use 
'em an' we could they want to steal 'em from us by pass- 
in' laws that they are to be free." 

1 'They won't set 'em free 'thout a fight," said Wilson, 
a young planter who, on the death of his father, had suc- 
ceeded to the possession of a large plantation with about 
eight hundred slaves. "I'm heah to tell yuh that law 
or no law they ain't goin' to have my niggers 'cept ovah 
my dead body, and some of 'em go with me to the king- 
dom come when I go, too!" 

"But I understand the more reasonable of them want 
to pay for the niggers out o' the national treasury when 
they set 'em free," said Lawyer Billings. 

"Pay foh 'em!" said Wilson, "Pay foh 'em! They 
ain't 'nough money in the United States treasury to pay 
foh the niggers. Niggers is niggers in the South. No, 
suh, they cain't pay foh 'em with money. This thing is 
either right or it's wrong. If it's right they ain't no right 
to offer to pay foh 'em, and if it's wrong we ain't no 
right to keep 'em. An' besides, it's as much ouah money 
as theirs that they're offerin' to use to buy 'em with." 

"Yes," said Hawkins, "It'd be like me tradin' a cod- 
fish to myse'f foh a sack o' salt an' then throwin' the salt 
in the rivah." 

"No, suh," continued Wilson, "my niggers is my nig- 
gers, and they don't belong to the United States and nevah 
did. I'm livin' in Arkansaw and when we cain't do in 
Arkansaw with ouah property as we want to without 
bein' set upon by those outside people who don't know 
nothin' about it it's time Arkansaw went by herse'f and 
run things to suit her own people." 

This sentiment met with almost unanimous applause. 

Just then Bob Crockett and Grandfather Clarke hap- 
pened along. 

"Hello, Bob," some one called out. "Howdy, suh, 
cap'n," to the old gentleman. 

"We've just declared wah, Bob," said another, "an' 
we want to know whether yuh-all air ready to fight." 

"I don' want no wah, and I ain't much on the fight," 

[22] 



answered Bob, good naturedly, ''but who yuh-all goin' to 
wah with?" 

"With the United States of America, by gad, sun," 
snapped a hotheaded planter who up to this time had not 
joined in the conversation, having been too busily engaged 
with the liquids from Hawkins' barrels. 

"I'd be sorry to have such a thing occuh, suh," said 
Bob. "I cain't forget that the United States of America 
was held pretty high by Grandfather Davy, an' that that 
same United States of America avenged his death. I'm 
ready to fight foh her, gentlemen, but I'd hate mightily 
to have to fight against huh." 

"Goin' to takes sides with the damned Yankees, air 
yuh?" demanded the same hothead, "an* help 'em steal 
ouah niggers! An' yuh a grandson of ol' Davy Crockett!" 

Bob's eyes flashed dangerously as he said quietly: 

"I made my statement, gentlemen, as a gentleman, and 
I stand ready to back it as a gentleman at any time or 
place or any distance!" 

The cooler ones saw the dangerous trend of the conver- 
sation and quickly hastened to interfere. 

"Jim didn't mean it, Bob. He's a little in liquor and 
don' know yuh as we do. Let it pass, there's a good fel- 
low. It'll be all right." Then, turning to the offending 
one, he said under his breath, "Apologize, damn yuh, or 
we'll all take a shot at yuh. You mout as well say yer 
prayers as meet Bob Crockett. You'd better get some 
sense in that addled brain of youah's quick." 

The offending one, partially sobered by the earnestness 
of his adviser, came to enough to mutter something which 
was taken as sufficient apology, and then lapsed into the 
next stage of his indisposition and went to sleep. 

"I've sometimes wished," put in Grandfather Clarke, 
who was always listened to with the utmost respect, "I've 
sometimes wished never a nigger had been brought to 
this country. They've been the bone of contention con- 
tinually and have done moh to keep us apart as a people 
than any other one thing." 

"But what would we have done without 'em, Cap'n?" 

[23] 



"That's mere speculation, of course," said Grandfather. 
"But no problem has evah yet been put up to the Ameri- 
can people that they could not solve if given time. This 
country would have been developed south without them 
just as it has been no'th, suh. Of cou'se, probably in a 
different way than it has been with them, but the south- 
ern people are just as capable of meeting conditions and 
getting the best of them as any other people on earth. If 
some epidemic should wipe out every nigger in the coun- 
try you'd fin' the men who are now making use of 'em 
because they are here would be the first to devise ways of 
getting along without 'em. You cain't tell me that a 
man who has as good a business head as, for instance, 
Mr. Wilson, heah, couldn't run his plantation if they 
wan't a nigger within a thousand miles — not at first, of 
cou'se, because it would take time to recover from the 
shock of the change and get readjusted. But he'd rise 
triumphantly ovah the worst obstacle and you'd fin' his 
acres at last yieldin' their just proportion of wealth." 

"I'd hate tuh do it, suh," said Wilson, who had been 
listening to Grandfather, "an' I thank yuh foh the com- 
pliment, but I don' expect the time will ever come when 
I won't have my own hands working my plantation. I'll 
fight, suh, an' it will be a case of the South fightin' foh 
her homes and people, and she'll win." 

"I hope, suh," continued Grandfather, "that it will not 
be necessary to go to war and especially against our own 
people. It would be cruel indeed." 

"Don't be alarmed, suh," said Wilson, "they won't 
fight. What they got to fight foh? Nothin' but a passel 
of niggers they don't own! What 've we got to fight for? 
Everything! We'll lick 'em, an' then they'll leave us 
alone." 

"Don't be too sure, Mr. Wilson, that they'll stop fight- 
in' when yuh-all begin. I had some of 'em with me in the 
Wah of Twelve, an' when they was fightin' I couldn't tell 
which was a Nawthener and which was a Southener. An' 
I'm thinkin' if evah they gets to goin' in a real struggle 

[24] 



both sides '11 know they's been a fight. I hope it won't 
come, suh. God help us if it does." 

"An' if it does come both sides will be prayin' to the 
same God to help 'em win," said Hawkins. "I've often 
wondered how He's goin' to answer both prayers. If 
yuh want God to help yuh when yuh-all air fightin' yu'd 
bettah put nothin' but powder in yuh guns. Yuh can get 
the noise of conflict an' miss the scene of carnage." 



L25] 



CHAPTER IV. 

Old Arkansas was teeming with seccession spirit long 
before any overt act had precipitated the great struggle. 
The attitude of Abraham Lincoln on the question of slav- 
ery had filtered through such prejudiced and impassioned 
strata that the ordinary people looked upon him as a veri- 
table monstrosity of fanatical bias. In him, according to 
their view, was concentrated the essence of all that the 
loudest agitators had ever said on the subject of slavery. 
And when the problem of remaining with the Union after 
his election came up to these people they were illy pre- 
pared mentally to give it that wise judicial consideration 
to which it was entitled. 

The war spirit was being continually fanned into a 
fury of flames, and all that was necessary to send the mer- 
cury of their mental thermometer soaring high was for 
some speaker to barely hint at an attack upon the insti- 
tution of slavery. Conservative men there were, indeed, 
who counseled delay in any action until at least the new 
administration had demonstrated by some move its an- 
tagonism to the South. But this counsel was swept aside 
in a cyclone of popular fury, and even the counselors 
themselves were charged with disloyalty to their state 
and their people for making such a suggestion. 

In the state of Arkansas, as in every other southern 
state, there were some free negroes. So high was the feel- 
ing against emancipated colored people that the Arkansas 
legislature passed a law giving them a limited time to 
leave the commonwealth or be returned to slavery. An 
exodus of free negroes followed, and the pitiful condition 
of these friendless people as they reached the free states 
did much to arouse an indignation there, and give excuse 
at least for much of the intemperate language uttered on 
that side of the line. In Mount Adams this law was re- 

[26] 



ceived with general expressions of satisfaction. Such men 
as believed it to be unjust found it useless to argue, and 
in fact from this time on the man who cried out against 
the onward sweep of seccession spirit jeopardized his 
property if not his life. 

Little part was taken by the Clarkes in the discussion 
of affairs in Arkansas, for they were newcomers to the 
state, and felt that they were not sufficiently a part of 
the people to presume to dictate in local affairs. Both the 
grandfather and the Colonel were great admirers of 
Stephen A. Douglas, and felt that his elevation to the 
presidency would help to avert a conflict, and result in 
reuniting the people in spirit. 

''There is much untamed talk, son," said Grandfather, 
at the table one day. "Talk that don' sound right to me. 
They don't talk sense, but just wild and crazy-like. 
They's some that's even talkin' the 'Empire of Arkan- 
saw.' I hope I'll nevah live to see the day when the ol' 
flag I fought for will give place anywhah in this Union 
to any otheh ensign." 

Poor Grandfather! Little did you realize that your 
hope was to be fulfilled, but not in the way you then ex- 
pected. 

"I just had a letter from Tilford Heck, back theah in 
Vuginyuh," answered the Colonel, "an' he says things 
are boilin' there. It would seem from his letteh that the 
agitators are in the saddle in the Old Dominion. I am 
sorry for that, suh, for I am a true Vuhginian yet. I told 
Tilford, in my letteh to him, that I felt her star was 
dimmed at that Charleston convention. Perhaps she 
could not do mo' with the trammels she had on. I am 
anxious to watch huh cou'se in the coming Baltimore con- 
vention. If she is true to huhse'f an' the Union it will be 
all right — otherwise we will all be sadly disappointed. I 
tol' him not to believe all the tales the newspapehs gave 
of this southern country, an' that we were all foh Doug- 
las foh president. I don' believe the masses are fireaters. 
It is only the few who are in power who want to see the 
Union jeopardized by their ultra cou'se. I tol' him we 

[27] 



love the union of these states too well to give up the ship 
without a hard fight, an' that I felt that if they back 
thah in Vuhginyuh would stand firm against this eou'se 
the whole South would back 'em; but if on the otheh han' 
they side with these dissension partisans who aim only at 
their own aggrandisement we would spurn them and 
stand against this tribe in ouah midst single handed, and 
that if fall we must it would be through the mistaken 
views of ouah fo'mer friends. I toF him we were just as 
much opposed to the southern fire-eaters as to the most 
ultra northern freedom shriekers. They both have the 
same object in view. As extremes meet, so with them. 
They meet and fight back to back against the Union. " 

"I'm mighty proud to heah you talk that way son, an' 
it's all right to talk so heah at ouah own table, but it's 
gettin' so you cain't talk that way down town. Of eou'se 
we comin' from Vuhginyuh makes 'em look on us without 
suspicion, but they barter 'roun' what this one said an' 
that one said down theah an' they don' hesitate to 
threaten to make it hot foh anyone who does not coincide 
with theah views. Even Bob Crockett, though a Union 
man so far as loyalty is concerned, has been poisoned an' 
inflamed by this continual harpin' on the wrongs which 
are to be perpetrated if this one is elected or that one is 
elected until he's with 'em foh fightin', though he won't 
consent to harmin' any of ouah own people heah who 
don' agree with 'em. Tou-all air so busy with youah 
wo'k yo' don' heah all that's goin' on, son, an' it will be 
just as wise if you-all keep on wo 'kin' an' don' talk poli- 
tics. It's been my obse'vation that these two occupations 
nevah did agree nohow (wo 'kin' and talkin' politics) 
an' that of the two wo'k got the most pay." 

"Oh, I'll keep on wo 'kin, suh, but nobody evah yet 
stopped a Clarke's mouth through fear, an' I shan't hesi- 
tate to say what I think." 

"That's all very well, son, but if you-all air busy theah 
won' be much chance foh you to get in your lick of talk, 
foh most of it is done by people who don't seem to have 
much to do, an' by the time you-all air ready to rest 

[28] 



they's so much in liquor that they've got beyond the 
point of youah associatin' with them. Some of these fel- 
lows talk as though all they had to do to get shet o' this 
Union is to unhook the traces. I'm afraid they's goin' 
to be some hard days foh somebody befo' they-all fin' out 
that the government is somelhin' mo' than a piece of 
parchment with names hitched to it." 

"Is theah goin' to be a wah, an' fightin', Gran'ther?" 
piped up young Bascom from the foot of the table. 

"No, honey, we hope not," said Gran'ther. "Why, 
what put that into youah head?" 

"Willie Trims said that his father said that Judge Rey- 
nolds said that they was goin' to lick the damned Yan- 
kees. Who is the damned Yankees, Gran'ther?" 

The table was stupefied. 

"Why, Bascom Clarke!" said his mother. 

"Bascom!" said his father. 

"Why, honey, wheah on ea'th did you get such lan- 
guage?" said his grandmother. 

But Grandfather's eyes twinkled as he said with great 
severity : 

1 ' Well, son, I seem to be the only one who comprehends 
the question without noticing youah innocent profanity. 
You know when Grandmother reads to you out 'en the 
Bible she sometimes slides ratheh light ovah certain words 
as she reads. I think that's a mistake, because by that 
means she does not convey to youthful min's like youahs 
the proper interpretation of the words therein contained. 
* Damned' is a word made use of frequently in the Good 
Book, to indicate those that God has no fuhtheh use foh. 
They air the people who air put into a lake of fiah an' 
brimstone afteh they die an' nevah get out of it. You-all 
have heard the parson tell 'bout hell fiah an' damnation, 
haven't you, son?" 

"Yes, suh," responded Bascom, "an' it always made 
me shake like I was cold." 

"Shuah," continued Grandfather. "Now, I believe 
you have in youh min' the full meaning of that word, an' 
because it makes the col' chills run up an' down the backs 

[29] 



of people, and theahfo' tends to make 'em uncomfortable, 
the word is used only on rare occasions, an' nevah in po- 
lite society. Therefo' I trust that you-all will not use it 
otherwise, Bascom. ,, 

1 'Yes, suh," said Bascom. 

"Theah may be times, son, when theah ain't no othah 
word in all the language which will fit in the place but 
just that one, an' mos' everyone is tempted to use it once 
in a while. But because of its terrible association good 
people don' use it 'less as a las' resort, an' in case of 
great stress. Do you think you-all unde'stan' the word 
now, son?" 

"Yes, suh." 

"Now, as to what is a Yankee, minus the cuss word: 
Now, I reckon this heah Judge What 's-his-name hisse'f 
wouldn't think the two words could be properly sepa- 
rated, an' I reckon that's about the trouble down South 
heah." 

"Yes, suh," said Bascom, uncomprehending but re- 
spectful. 

Grandfather came to himself, and again recognized his 
youthful interrogator. 

"Oh, yes, a Yankee ! Well, a genuine Yankee, the origi- 
nal stock, you know, has to be bo'n in New England, an' 
be so dried up from lack of good things to eat, an' with- 
ered from hard winters as to be absolutely distinguishable 
from the rest o' the human race. They must be able to 
show that theah gran 'father 's gran 'father 's gran 'father 
came ovah in the Mayfloweh an' that none o' the tribe 
has so much as touched foot outside the boundaries o' 
New England since, except when they went to sign the 
Declaration of Independence or took upon themselves the 
onerous job o' tellin' how the gove'nment should be run 
in the halls o' Congress. They mus' recognize Boston as 
the place whah all culchuh begun an' ended. Now we 
come, son, to the people designated as damned Yankees 
by the distinguished Judge What 's-his-name : All people 
who exist in the United States of America who do not 
own slaves, ('cept o' cou'se the po' white trash heah who 

[30] 



wouldn't know what to do with 'em if they had 'em), 
come, accordin' to the dictionaries of the South, under the 
double and cussful definition of double-blanked Yankees. 
In otheh words, son, we own slaves down heah in the 
South, an' they don' own slaves up No'th. Therefo' we 
air supposed by men like this Judge What's-his-name to 
hate 'em like pizen, an' so to us at least they are supposed 
to be cast into outer darkness, or damned. Now, on the 
otheh han', to the Judge What's-his-name of the No'th we, 
being of a different opinion, and surrounded by different 
influences, are by them presumed to belong to those whom 
God has cast aside and forgot, an', I suppose, are therefo' 
damned so far as they are concerned. Now, son, don* let 
these people heah make you think that the Yankees air 
any thin' mo' than flesh an' blood like youse'f, an' take 
it f 'm youah Gran'ther who has slept with 'em an' ate 
with 'em that if I was to take the ordinary Yankee and 
the ordinary Southerner an' stan' 'em side by side you 
couldn't tell the difference. In my min' they's all one 
people. They're (ahem!) fools on both sides o' the line, 
son, but the great mass o' the people's alike. Don' you 
ever be af eared to go Nawth an' mingle with 'em. You'll 
fin' 'em jest as generous, jest as hospitable, an' jest as 
good folks as you fin' heah or anywhere else in the South. 
Whatevah comes in youah life, you can always trust them 
as has the stars and stripes foh they-all flag. Youah 
Gran'ther's gettin' old, an' God may call him any time, 
but you-all jest 'member that God intended this to be one 
country an' one people under one flag, an' the tortures 
o' the damned will come to those who try to take out 
one star." 

Grandfather's eyes blazed as he gave evpression to his 
patriotism, to which the freedom of his own fireside per- 
mitted him to give full vent. 

"Yes, suh!" said Bascom. 

"I don't like the talk, Colonel," concluded the old man, 
giving his son his title in full dignity, a rare thing for 
him, "I don' like the talk an' I'm afeered they's trouble 

[31] 



ahead, but I believe with you-all the good ship will 
weather the storm/' 

"My faith in the greatness of the Almighty makes me 
believe He will solve the problem," added Grandmother. 

"Amen!" from the Colonel. 



To Grandmother Clarke little Bascom owed practically 
all the education he received in his early boyhood. His 
mother, cumbered with the care of the household, had but 
little time to devote to any one of the children. So the 
grandmother, in the absence of other facilities, and de- 
termined that there should be at least the foundation of 
knowledge, used the Christian Advocate, the great Metho- 
dist Church organ, and the Bible to teach him his letters. 
As a consequence the boy missed the log school house and 
birch rod accessory of his northern contemporaries in his 
earlier years. However, he was in the hands of a stern 
and strict disciplinarian, for Grandmother was a firm be- 
liever in strict attention to the thing at hand, and kept 
Bascom to his tasks until he was able to read. She also 
taught him to write and to figure. 

When a small private school was established in the vil- 
lage he had the advantage of a few weeks' training, but 
the war put an end to anything like systematic education. 
However, the constant encouragement he received from 
his grandmother to learn things and a desire on his own 
part to know things contributed to give him that founda- 
dation for a broad practical education which stood him 
in good stead in later years. No one can estimate the in- 
fluence of this good woman on his life. She lived her 
Christianity. Her soul was an open book before the Lord, 
and she inculcated her faith, absolute and complete, in 
her grandson. 

"Honey," she said, "Never doubt Him. There will 
come days when you think He has deserted you; when 
you'll wonder why you can't find Him. Pray to Him, Bas- 
com, pray with all your min' an' strength, and the light 
will come." 

[32] 



Fed upon this sublime faith it is little wonder that in all 
his after years he never failed to reach up after the Om- 
nipotent Hand when the stress of earthly events threat- 
en ed to overwhelm him. 

"Faith, honey," she said, "is the golden chain by which 
Love holds Confidence. Hope is the co'ner stone of right- 
eous determination. Charity is the perfume of Christ's 
influence. I want you to be a good man, Bascom boy. I 
want you-all to live so somebody will thank God you were 
bo'n. You-all air mighty hotheaded sometimes, honey, 
and you ain't goin' to get through youah life without some 
ha'd knocks. 

"You-all air goin' to fin' that the world is full of folk 
who air nothin' but pretenders. They pretend they have 
faith, but if they-all don' have love and confidence you'll 
know they're jest pretendin'. They'll be tellin' how 
much hope they own, but if you-all look closely and fin' 
they-all ain't tryin' to he'p somebody else git higher set 
'em down as pretenders. You'll heah folk tellin' how 
much charity they have, but if you cain't fin' anyone 
who goes down on his knees an' with the tears stream- 
in' down his cheeks thanks God that these partic'lar 
charity shouters was bo'n you-all can make up youah 
min' they-all Christlike perfume is a sham. 

"When I was young, honey, an' about the time youah 
Grandfather was cou'tin' me, a very dear frien' o' mine 
brought me from Paris some attar o' roses. I used jest a 
little drop o' it in the draw' wheah I kept my fine linen, 
and it stayed and stayed and stayed, and was always 
jest the same delicate hint of the flower. Somebody gave 
youah sister some a while ago, boughten down heah to the 
sto'. It smelt all right to sta't with, but in a little while 
when you opened the draw' it smelled mo' like campheen. 
Whatevah you air be it, honey. The Lord's goin' to meas- 
ure yuh by what yuh air, at the finish, and as He is the 
only one that really counts, what's the use o' livin' a 
sham all youah life? 

"They was a man back theah in Vuhginyuh, Simeon 
Trask, po' white trash. He nevah had a chance. His 

3 .33] 



father was a drunken, shiftless vagabond and his mother 
a ne'er-do-well, ignorant and slovenly. Nobody trusted 
any o' 'em, root or branch. I saw Simeon take a bleedin' 
an' crushed dog which somebody had run ovah in the 
road, and wash its wounds and dress 'em, and care for 
the dog till it got well and strong. I saw him stop one day 
and free a little bird that 'd got tangled in some netting 
and lift it high and watch it with satisfaction as it swiftly 
flew back to its nestlings. I saw him pick up a little nig- 
ger girl that'd sprained her ankle and couldn't walk, 
and carry her to her cabin. I believe Simeon Trask '11 
come closer to gettin' to heaven finally than the hypo- 
critical 'Squire Allen who would spend a half houah at a 
time tellin' the Lord all about what he wanted the Lord 
to do, while almost befo' he'd said 'Amen' he'd be fig- 
gerin' how he could squeeze a dollah out o' some po' 
man he'd got wheah he couldn't wiggle!" 

And it was this kind of talk that gave Bascom the 
foundation of faith, hope and charity upon which rested 
his after life. The Clarke home was characterized by 
open frankness between the members of the household. 
The children were never in a state of repression and re- 
straint, although early trained to absolute and unques- 
tioning obedience. 

The mother, though not physically strong, was an ener- 
getic, indefatigable worker. She was the home-maker 
for Colonel Clarke, and that was sufficient for her. She 
was proud of her husband, and her whole life was de- 
voted to him and her family. She wanted no broader field 
of action, and was content. 

The grandfather, dignified, straight and vigorous, not- 
withstanding four score years had crept upon him, en- 
joyed the respite from labor which his age gave him, but 
possessed a keen interest in the questions of the day. He 
and Bob Crockett kept enough wild game in the larders 
of the two households to render unnecessary recourse very 
often to the staple bacon, ham and salt pork. 

In the spring of 1860, the old gentleman went out after 
ducks in the river bottom. The fowl were on their way 

[34] 



up from the far south and were resting by the thousands 
in and about the waters of the White. While wading in 
the overflow retrieving some ducks, the grandfather 
caught cold, pneumonia resulted, and in a few days this 
splendid character had yielded to the great conqueror. 

It was Bascom's first close observation of the grim de- 
stroyer's work. As he looked into the face and saw no 
smile of recognition and felt no hand reach out to rest 
lovingly on his head, his little heart was broken. He and 
Grandfather had been comrades, and the old man had 
talked to him about the great problems of life, had ad- 
vised with him about proper lines of conduct. The full 
realization of what it all meant did not come to him until 
later. 

As the days came and went, and he missed the tender 
companionship and solicitude of this old cavalier, he 
could not reason out why this loss had come to them. Un- 
consciously he would turn to Grandfather to help him 
unravel some tangle of perplexity, only to remember that 
they had taken him to the little cemetery on the hill. 
Over there the little boy would go and stand close by, 
looking at the mound of fresh earth, as though the loved 
voice might come to him from the grave. 

Grandmother seemed to change. Before, she had been 
a part of this world and its activities. Now, she could 
be seen looking, looking, ever looking, as if to catch a 
glimpse of the inside of the great beyond, where he had 
gone. She would touch with tenderness the things about 
the house which were his. The old flint-lock musket hung 
above the fireplace, and the more modern fowling-piece, 
which he had used on the day when he was out last, stood 
in a corner. She was lonely, lonely, and all the world 
would not be company to her now. All the years she had 
lived with him, with scarce the separation of a day, came 
back in a troop of memories. Now when she talked to Bas- 
com, it was about the grandfather. She told him stories 
of his boyhood and the things in his life which went to 
develop his strong character. 

[35] 



"I felt like murmuring, honey," she said softly, one 
day, "I felt like murmuring, for he was good, and God 
took him. But, oh, I praise God that I had him, that all 
these years He has permitted me to know and love and 
keep him. And now, I can only say, 'The Lord hath 
given, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the 
name of the Lord/ " 



136] 



CHAPTER V. 

"I understan', suh," said Will, the oldest son, address- 
ing his father one morning at the breakfast table, ''I 
understan' Wade Andrews los' ten niggers las 'night." 

"How'd they get away?" 

"They didn't get away, suh. He los' 'em at pokah. 
Theah was a pretty big game runnin', and a fellow from 
down Memphis way made a cleanin'." 

"A man that'd gamble away his niggers ain't fitten to 
have 'em," chimed in the grandmother. "I don' wondah 
some people get a bad impression of slaveholders. A man 
like Wade Andrews, who has no mo' consideration for 
his people than to barter 'em at a gamin' table, does mo' 
to stir up harsh feelin's than the thousands of slavehold- 
ers who look upon theah slaves as part o' the family 
can do to justify holdin' 'em. What is the Memphis man 
goin' to do with the niggers?" 

"I understan' they-all is to be sold tomorrow mawnin' 
at the market place, all 'cept one, a big nigger that the 
man is goin' to take down to Memphis with him, because 
he thinks he can get a better price." 

"That's what I don' like about the whole thing," an- 
swered Grandmother. "It's always, 'How much money 
can I make out of 'em?' If God put these people in ouah 
han's we ought to keep 'em togetheh. They ain't like 
cattle and sheep. If we barter 'em 'roun in selfish hope 
to make money outen 'em I believe we'll be punished 
for it." 

"Look out, Mother," chaffed the Colonel, "somebody '11 
cha'ge you with bein' an ab 'litionist ! " 

"I ain't no ab 'litionist. I'm a Christian, an' if the 
South will mix a little mo' Christianity in the treatment 
of its bond-people it will be in better condition to stand 
on its legs and uphold its right to 'em. Go back to youah 

[37] 



Bible and see what God did to Pharaoh when he forgot 
how to treat the chil'en of Israel! He cleared a path for 
'em to get away, and Pharaoh los' all of them. They was 
mighty valuable to Pharaoh, too, and it took the oV king 
a long time to get hisse'f and his people so they could 
get along without 'em. We ought to take warnin'!" 

' 'It don' seem to me," said Mother Clarke, "that Aunt 
Lou and Uncle Sol would be any bettah off if they were 
free than they-all be now." 

"No," responded Grandmother, "probably they-all 
wouldn 't be as well off as they air. But you-all know all 
the niggers in the South ain't Aunt Louises and Uncle 
Sols, and all the people in the South ain't Clarkes!" 

"I don' see what the people up Nawth want to bothah 
about our niggers foh, anway," pursued Mother. "We 
ain't interferein' with any of theah doin's. We-all air 
mindin' ouah own business, and why cain't they-all let 
us alone?" 

"But, Mother," answered the Colonel to his wife's 
query, "that's where the trouble comes. They say we-all 
ain't mindin' ouah own business, but want to push slav- 
ery into their territory. I agree with you that if the 
southern politicians had been content to let well enough 
alone, and have slavery confined to the part of the coun- 
try where it originally was, and had not sought to extend 
it into new states as they were made there would have 
been no trouble, at least not foh years to come. But they 
have spit fiah at each otheh down theah at Washin'ton, 
these Southern hotheads and Nawth 'n agitators, till they- 
all have agreed to disagree on every question, no matter 
what. It doesn't make any difference what the question 
is, nor how unimpohtant, they finally get agoin' on slav- 
ery. All hands immediately forget they-all air repre- 
sentin' the people of the United States, and divide them- 
selves into Southerners and Nawthe'ners. Then each one 
of 'em goes home, and tells the people what great things 
he has done and said, and repeats some of the hot stuff, 
and the people get on fiah who don' stop to reason, and 
hate each otheh as a result." 

[38] 



"They-all say, suh," broke in the oldest son, "that the 
South is goin' out of the Union and form a gove'ment 
of its own." 

"That wouldn't solve the question, son," answered the 
Colonel. "If they-all cain't solve this matteh among 
themselves, as man to man, and reach such a settlement 
as will be fair, just and equitable to all, war is the inevi- 
table result. Down heah, if men don' agree, they some- 
times fight a duel, and one or the other of them or both 
sometimes get pretty badly hurt. If I am not mistaken 
we may see a duel on a large scale. I do not flatter my- 
se'f it will be a bloodless duel. Some one is bound to get 
hurt. Every drop spilled will cry out in anguish that this 
great nation, built for liberty and with every provision 
for the settlement of all questions by the votes of the 
people, was a failure. If this gove'ment fails to stand 
then we might as well bid good-bye to democratic gove'- 
ment forever." 

"Bob Crockett is in foh fightin', suh," continued Will. 
"He says if Arkansaw goes out of the Union he's goin' 
with her." 

"Yes," answered the Colonel with a touch of sadness, 
"Men seem to be putting the state above the Union. Fol- 
lowing that to its logical conclusions and you will later 
find the counties arraigned against the state, and then 
the towns against the counties, until there is no longer 
a great big national patriotism, and all things will be 
viewed through the glasses of the locality. Bob is im- 
petuous, and he won't stop to reason out the matter much. 
He will be swung into line as soon as that fighting spirit 
of his is appealed to, and he'll fight, too, there's no gain- 
sayin' that." 

"I wish Grandfather was here," softly spoke the old 
lady. "He'd help 'em all to understand. I wish he were 
here. I cain't seem to get the right of this at all.." 

"Father couldn't stem the tide alone, Mother," gravely 
answered the Colonel, ' ' and if we were to have a war be- 
tween the states and against the gove'ment it would break 

[39] 



his heart to see any other flag in the air as representing 
any part of the American people." 

"Perhaps it is better he is at rest. Perhaps it is best. 
God knows best. But, oh, I do miss him so." 

No eye was dry at the table, for each missed him in his 
or her own way. 

"If they's goin' to be any fightin', suh, and Bob Crock- 
ett goes, I am goin' too, suh, with youah permission," con- 
tinued the oldest son. 

"You ain't agoin'! You ain't agoin'!" put in Mother 
Clarke. "They-all won't need you. Let them do the 
fightin' that wants a war, and let my chil'en alone ! Don't 
talk like that, child, you-all air too young to go to war!" 

"I'm seventeen years old, Mother, and Bob Crockett 
says I handle a gun like an old-timer." 

"Bob Crockett! Bob Crockett! Why, Bob Crockett 
was bo'n and raised to fight. He's got fight in his blood, 
but you was bo'n in peace and of a peace-lovin' family. 
They ain't no use talkin', honey, you ain't agoin'!" 

"I come from a fightin' family, too, Mother. Wasn't 
Grandfather one of the bravest and best men that evah 
was, and isn't my father one of the best soldiers in 
America, even if there hasn't been any war for him to 
fight in?" 

"Youah grandfather and youah father air different. 
You air only a boy, and it would be a shame to take you- 
all away from youah family and make you fight, and 
maybe be killed," and she commenced to cry at the very 
thought of it. 

The father comforted her and told her not to worry. 
There wasn't any war yet, and the boy hadn't gone to 
fight and be killed. 

"When the time comes we will look the matter square 
in the face," said the Colonel, "and you shall do that 
which your conscience dictates is right. I shall feel as 
badly as your mother, William, but when it comes to a 
question of duty I shall not stand between my children 
and what they believe way down in their hearts is right, 

[40] 



if it involves no matter that reflects on their moral char- 
acter." 

"Don't let him go, James," spoke up Grandmother, 
"he is too young." 

"If none but the men of mature judgment and ripe ex- 
perience did the fighting there would be but few wars. 
It takes cool heads and trained minds to lay out the plan 
^f campaign, but its accomplishment must depend to a 
great measure on the impetuosity and impulsiveness, dash 
and abandon of the young man who doesn't stop to think 
of consequences. The older man measures first and acts 
afterwards. The young man acts and lets the other fellow 
do all the measuring." 

There was a moment's pause and then Grandmother 
said again: 

"I wish Granfather was here." 



The next day Bascom saw the slaves sold. As each one 
came forward and stood upon the platform where all 
could see and examine them the auctioneer in a sing-song 
tone told of the merits of each and called for bids. It 
was Saturday afternoon and all the planters were in town. 
The bidding was lively and the slaves brought good prices. 
There seemed to be no heartrending sadness in the faces 
of the bondmen. They were laughing and chatting away 
with their fellows. In fact, they appeared to be paying 
a great deal of attention to the bids, as though measur- 
ing their own value by the amount offered for them. 

On the outer edge of the crowd was a fringe of negroes 
from the plantations nearby, who were evidently as 
much interested in the proceedings as their masters. It 
was a part of the life to which they were born. 

Andrews' Caesar, the one who was not to be sold, was 
the center of a knot of negroes away from the others. 
He was the one who was to accompany his new master 
down the river to Memphis. By him stood a mulatto 
girl from the Wilson plantation, who was to see the last 
of her big lover. Tears were running down her cheeks, 

[41] 



but she did not murmur against the system. It was a 
part of the life, and though her heart was breaking with 
the grief of separation she saw no wrong in it. Caesar 
comforted her as best he could, but seemed to have more 
interest in the journey he was to take and the things 
he would see in the strange country to which he was 
going. He had no love for his late master, and outside 
this yellow girl, was evidently totally indifferent to the 
proceedings. 

"Marse Wilson am gwine to try to buy you-all, ,, said 
the mulatto girl. 

"Am he?" answered Caesar. "I don't s'pose dis hyah 
man '11 sell me to him. Dey ain't nobody can pay enough 
foh me hyah." 

There was a certain amount of pride expressed in this. 
The fact that he was worth so much that no one in that 
neighborhood could afford to keep him appealed to him 
and marked him for great respect among the other col- 
ored people. 

Wilson offered Caesar's new master as high as $2,000 
for him, but even this amount, large for that community, 
was refused, and the big negro went down the river on a 
boat that came along that evening. 

Bascom was very much interested in the whole proceed- 
ing. He was all around, close up to the auction block 
during the sale, and mixed in with the crowd. He heard 
the comments on the values of the slaves, while to him 
the auctioneer who held the center of the platform and 
discoursed on the merits of the chattels, was invested with 
a glory in the boy's mind which would have increased 
an already enormous estimate of his own importance. 

Bob Crockett had spied him once during the sale, and 
had put his hand playfully on the lad's head: 

"Which nigger air you-all goin' to buy, sonny?" 

"I ain't agoin' to buy none of 'em," he answered. "My 
grandmother says 'tain't right to sell 'em." 

"Ho! Ho! Grandmother says 'tain't right, does she? 
What objection does she have to sellin' 'em?" 

"She says," answered Bascom, scenting criticism of 

[42] 



his beloved Grandmother, "she says they ought to be 
kept together and taken cayah of, 'cause God says so." 

Bob laughed, and stroked the youngster's head. 

"Youah grandmother, sonny, is a good woman, and she 
can get mo' immediate and direct info'mation f'm the 
Almighty than mos' o' the folks. Probably 'cause she 
spends mo' time in conve'sation with Him than the rest 
of us. But I reckon as long as we have slavery, — and I 
reckon that'll be always, — they'll have to be sales of 'em. 
If folks only had a few niggers they mought keep 'em 
as long as they'd live, jes' like you'd keep an ol' hawse 
that'd been true and faithful. But when yuh got a lot 
of 'em and times change with yuh, somebody' else's got 
to take 'em or they would starve. An' they'll have to be 
sold or freed, and if you don' sell 'em and all youah money 
is in the niggers you will starve, too, and if you free 'em 
they-all '11 hang roun' heah so impohtant that they have 
a bad influence on the otheh niggers. So, 'bout the only 
way to get shet of 'em and not disturb things too much, 
sonny, is to sell 'em, youah esteemed and beloved grand- 
mother to the contrary notwithstanding." 

Bascom went home somewhat mixed in his mental pro- 
cess. Bob Crockett was his hero, while his grandmother 
was his judge. So he stated the result of his conversa- 
tion to the old lady for her rebuttal. 

"Bob Crockett looks at these things, honey, from the 
standpoint of money, and money ain't all they is in this 
world. To my min' it is the least." 

"Why, Grandmother, wouldn't you-all like to have a 
lot of money?" said Bascom in wonderment, because the 
possession of wealth to him in those days was consonant 
with greatness and the accomplishment of big things. 

"No, honey, I wouldn't like to have a lot of money if 
the makin' or the takin' of it was to cause somebody a 
lot of sufferin'. I'd rather be poor and makin' folks 
happy than rich and makin' people miserable. Don' you 
ever let 'em make you-all believe, honey, that money '11 
buy you happiness, except as you-all spend it to make 
happiness. If you-all spend money foh the happiness of 

[43] 



otheh people God '11 give you mo', and you'll be rich no 
matter how much you got. But if you don' spend money 
foh otheh people's happiness, the money you get, no mat- 
ter how much, won't be God's money, and you'll be a 
pauper in happiness youse'f, even if you measure youah 
wealth by the hundreds of thousands of dollahs." 

This philosophy of the good old lady kept soaking into 
the moral fiber of Bascom through the years and years 
that followed, and was by him proved to be absolutely 
correct. 



[44] 



CHAPTER VI. 

Lincoln was elected! News traveled by slow post usu- 
ally to the back towns of Arkansas, but this was consid- 
ered bad news, and it certainly followed the old adage 
and beat all records for swiftness. The wiser ones knew 
what this meant on the great chess board of national life, 
and immediate preparations were made to sacrifice the 
pawns, rooks and knights to checkmate the will of the 
majority. The Saturday following the receipt of the news 
beheld an unusual sight in the streets of Mount Adams. 

"So they've called our hands, have they?" said Wilson, 
the planter whose slaves ran up into the hundreds. "Well, 
they'll find there's no bob-tail flush in the South. What 
do they know about fightin', these namby-pamby, greasy 
mechanics up Nawth ! They've nevah even fiahed a squir- 
rel gun and the smell o' powdah would be so strange to 
'em they'd mistake it foh some new-f angeled pahfume. 
By the time these damned Yankees get 'roun' to run the 
gove'ment they-all '11 fin' they ain't no gove'ment foh 
'em to run. We-all air goin' to have wah, an' we might 
as well get ready for it." 

This seemed to voice the general sentiment and a mili- 
tary company was immediately organized. The fighting 
spirit was aroused and nearly everybody in the commu- 
nity, old and young, was ready to offer his services. A 
motley array of arms was collected, running from the old 
flint-lock of Davy Crockett down to the squirrel rifle and 
double-barrelled shot gun, duelling pistols and ancient 
pattern pepper-box revolvers. 

The young lads caught the spirit and the First Arkan- 
sas Cadet Corps resulted, of which young Bascom was a 
member, largely self-constituted as such, but in his own 
mind one of the most important among them. McFarren 
Price, now a merchant of Stuttgart, Arkansas, was made 

[45] 



captain, almost by general consent. Bascom voted for 
himself for every other position down to and including 
corporal. In fact, when the tellers were counting ballots 
on each announcement of the result, way down at the tail 
of the list they would invariably announce : 

"And one for Bascom B. Clarke!" 

And this was not an evidence of conceit, but of boyish 
enthusiasm. Had it been conceit, after the election was 
over the lad would have refused to continue as a com- 
mon private, feeling that his valuable services were not 
properly appreciated. His brother Will, older and more 
mature, did not aspire to official recognition, but was con- 
tent to subordinate himself if it only gave him a chance 
to fight. The younger boys were let in by sufferance, al- 
though they were not permitted to use the fire-arms. 

"They won't do no hahm," said Bob Crockett, "an' 
you mought as well let 'em in and they-all '11 be whah 
we can look after 'em." 

It was a great time for the lad and his associates. The 
cause for which they were enlisted did not matter to them. 
But the wooden guns, the white duck trousers with red 
stripes, good-naturedly made by the mothers and sisters 
of the boys, and the opportunity to drill and be taught 
the manual of arms, made them, in their minds, a part of 
the great army of conquest which was to subdue the 
"Nawth" and establish a new country. Tom Hawkins 
was drill master and, though somewhat rusty in his 
knowledge of tactics brought down from old militia days, 
managed to get the lines in some kind of shape, instruct 
the amateur soldiers in simple evolutions and show them 
how to "carry," "present" and "port" arms. 

It was, to be sure, an awkward squad, but it was earnest 
and tractable. The little lads learned quickly, more so 
than their elders, because they were constantly at it all 
day long. It was the only game they played and they 
played it hard. The "nigger uprising" which the leaders 
of the South had predicted was, in the judgment of these 
boys, effectually forestalled by their prompt and efficient 

1^1 



answer to the call of the South. They figuratively and 
in pantomime killed the entire negro race, always pre- 
serving, however, the colored servants in their own fami- 
lies. They would march upon the enemy in full battle 
array, halt, perfect the formation of the line, "aim," 
"fire" and then "charge." The "niggers" and "Yan- 
kees" could be seen in their vivid imaginations, flying in 
terror before them. After the imaginary prisoners of 
war had been summarily put to death the sentries would 
be duly posted and the army would go into camp to talk 
over the day's victories and plan for the morrow's coup. 

Events followed swiftly, the opening shot of the great 
war had been fired at Fort Sumter, and soon Arkansas 
voted to secede from the Union. The state called for vol- 
unteers. The whites for miles around gathered at Mount 
Adams, and excitement ran high. The negroes nearly 
all stayed on the plantations, too frightened to move. They 
had heard enough of the discussion to know that their 
race was in some way involved in the turmoil, and they 
w r ere being held responsible for the impending conflict. 
No matter if they had done nothing themselves to justify 
the attitude of their masters toward them individually, 
they were a part of the great mass of slaves, and gradu- 
ally it sifted through their dense understanding that pos- 
sibly they might be free if the Yankees won out. 

So the little town of Mount Adams seethed and boiled 
with hatred towards the North and loyalty to the South 
and her institutions. A down river packet had brought 
the news of the seccession and the call. In a short time 
an old cannon, loaned to the village some time before for 
the Fourth of July celebrations, began pounding as fast 
as it could be swabbed, loaded and fired. Its echoes an- 
swered all up and down the valley. The fife and drums 
filled the air with martial music. AYith Americans noth- 
ing seems to so stir the fighting blood as the shrill fife 
and its accompanying drums. The bugle is the aristoc- 
racy of war time musical instruments, the fife is the com- 
mon people. So the martial strains of the fife and drums, 

[47] 



with cannon-shot punctuation, set the nerves of the village 
folk tingling and keyed them to the pitch of unrestrained 
excitement. There was a call for Bob Crockett and he 
mounted a box. 

" Fellow citizens/' he began, "they ain't much need 
of any speech to you-all. Old Arkansaw has called to us 
in the name o' the South. Nevah yet in the history of 
this country has a call been made for fightehs that that 
call has not been answered by tens of thousands of the 
best men in the land. I believe and you-all believe that 
we 're right. They have elected a Yankee f oh the head o ' 
this nation who is in favoh of freein' the slaves and settin' 
'em against their masters. Air we goin' to stan' it? No! 
Every true Southern min' says 'No !' If I know the spirit 
o' the people of the South, and I think I do, in thirty 
days the Nawth will fin' such an army of determined, 
brave men confrontin' her that she will be wise enough 
not to lay han's on. 01' Arkansaw asks my services foh 
the defense of her good name and her people and her right 
to make such laws as will protect ouah property. I be- 
long to Arkansaw! If the ol' state wants my services 
they air at her command. If she wants some one to fight 
foh her, I will answer 'Present!' If she wants some one 
to < 1! e foh her, I will say, 'Take Bob Crockett; I'm ready!' 
Whetheh to live or die ! Whetheh for peace or wah ! 
Whatevah the future has foh me, I'm goin' to put my 
nar e down on this roll in answer to the call o ' my state. ' ' 

Bob grew more and more earnest, ending with a final 
appeal to others to join him in going to the front, and 
they crowded forward by the dozens when he had ended. 
When the next packet went down the river the recruits 
were escorted to the landing by the fife and drum corps 
and all the inhabitants of the village and the plantations 
round about, while the old cannon was again called into 
reqrisition to add its ponderous voice to the farewell. 
Some of the recruits were from the company of cadets, 
and they bore themselves with all the military dignity 
with which they had been so recently invested. 

[48] 



■, ;-. i. D 




WHITE, K>IVE£_P ^Z5^ 



As the}' went on board they sang with a zest and vim : 

We are a band of brothers, 

And natives of the soil, 
Fighting for the property 

We've gained by honest toil, 
And when our rights were threatened 

The cry rose near and far 
To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag 

Which bears a single star. 

They carried a "bonnie blue flag" presented to them 
by the ladies of the village through Miss Petonia B. Crock- 
ett, sister of Bob. Of course Bob Crockett was unani- 
mously chosen as the head of the local company and later 
rose to the command of a regiment in the Confederate 
army. 

All that was left of the company of cadets formed the 
official escort, heading the line and leading the way to 
the landing. The smaller boys, in full uniform, with a 
"bonnie blue flag" made out of cambric proudly flung to 
the breeze, were permitted a conspicuous place in the pro- 
cession. And close up to the colors, marching with dig- 
nified and stately tread, keeping step to the swing of the 
martial music, was Bascom B. Clarke, southern patriot. 

It had been a keen disappointment to him that he was 
not privileged to go and participate in the bloody conflict. 
He saw a mother break down and cry bitterly as her son 
w^aved her a last adieu from the deck of the steamer, and 
marveled that there could be any grief accompanying such 
a glorious separation. Men turned away in sadness to 
hide the choke in their throats and the tears in their eyes. 
Some of them realized the serious side of the perilous 
policy upon which the South had ventured. 

But neither the grief of separation nor serious contem- 
plation of portended tragedy touched the youthful con- 
tingent in the escort. They could see only the marching 
columns and uniformed men, the bayonets catching the 
gleam of the smiling sun, their colors waving proudly in 
the breeze and the campfires' glow at night when the sol- 
4 [49] 



diers were at rest. They could hear only the strains of 
the martial music as it gave them the time, and the huzzas 
of victory as the enemy gave way before the conquering 
host. They saw no weary men, with laggard step and de- 
jected air, sick at heart for their own homes and firesides, 
nor did they hear the moans and groans of the wounded 
and dying. There did not come to them the bitterness of 
defeat or the hardships and privations the soldiers in the 
field on either side must experience. One hundred days 
would soon pass, the war would be over, and these men 
would be back in Mount Adams, a part of a conquering 
host ! Bascom began to count the days, but he never saw 
them come back, and some of them never came back, but 
sleep in shallow graves on the battlefields of a great fra- 
tricidal war. 

Bascom had gravely approached Bob Crockett the day 
before the departure of the company, and had announced 
that he wanted to go, too. 

1 ' Why, sonny, you-all cain 't go. You ain 't old enough. ' ' 

"I kin shoot, suh. You-all know I kin shoot, foh you 
taught me how. ' ' 

"Yes, boy, you-all can shoot, but it's goin' to take some- 
thin ' more'n shootin'. It looks like a campmeetin , and 
Glory Hallelujah to you, sonny, but I'm afeered we've 
got a man's work cut out foh us. You go home and ask 
youah grandmother to pray foh us, foh I reckon we-all '11 
need all her prayehs afo' we get through with this scrim- 
mage. I'm proud, sonny, that you-all want to go an' fight 
foh ol* Arkansaw, an' you a Vuhginyan, but you ain't 
needed now at the front and they 'all '11 need you at 
home." 

He patted the boy on the shoulder affectionately and 
then was called away. The years rolled around many times 
before Bascom again saw Bob Crockett. But Bob Crock- 
ett, despite his roughness and frailties, was always a part 
of the after life of the boy. Brave, strong, courageous, 
yet with a gentleness and consideration that brought him 
close to the weak and the troubled, it is little wonder that 
his soldiers idolized him, neither is it to be wondered that 

[50] 



he won promotion after promotion for gallantry and 
added luster to the laurels of Arkansas in the war. 

Very soon the money of the Confederacy began to make 
its appearance, and the coin and bills of the government 
of the United States disappeared. Indeed, it was consid- 
ered treasonable to use the latter. When the first bills of 
the new government of the Confedrate States of America 
arrived they were grabbed with anxious greediness by 
everybody, and with a sense of gratified pride the people 
promptly accepted them as the circulating medium. Tak- 
ing advantage of this patriotic demonstration in favor of 
their new government, so manifest by the people, and ac- 
ceding to the apparent wishes of the populace, the men who 
owned the Jewish Supply Store of Rodjesky & Company, 
facilitated the exchange from United States to Confeder- 
ate States cash. They promptly retired the former; and 
to further attest their patriotism, did not again offer a 
single piece of it. Their dealings with the people, in the 
purchase of cotton and other produce, gave them oppor- 
tunity to dispose of large amounts of the new currency. 

Rodjesky & Company located themselves at the landing 
before the Clarkes arrived and the boom toward a big 
city began. The "Supply House," as it was called, was 
designed to carry everything needed by the people, dry 
goods, groceries, hardware, drugs and medicines, agricul- 
tural machinery, and such other goods and materials as 
might be called for. The trade of the establishment ran 
back from the river for miles, reaching all the plantations. 
Their accounts with the planters were very heavy, as prac- 
tically all the cotton from that region passed through their 
hands to market. Adolph Rodjesky, the head of the es- 
tablishment, had become impressed with the sterling in- 
tegrity and worth of Colonel Clarke. When the latter's 
surveying was done he was employed in the supply house, 
and the details of the business were largely in his hands. 

For a time after the opening of the war things ran 
along about as usual in the village. News from the front 
came through very slowly and was so colored in the inter- 
ests of the Confederacy as to give the impression of an 

[51] 



unbroken line of Southern successes. But the hundred 
days went by and the war was not at end. It was practi- 
cally impossible to get any news of the men who had de- 
parted in such a blaze of enthuiasm. Their relatives be- 
gan to worry as reports of battles found their way to the 
hamlet, and laughter was a rare sound, except among the 
children. 

Then came the blockading of the ports and even the 
Eodjesky Company was unable to get supplies from below. 
First one article could not be furnished, and then another, 
until the people began to taste the privations of war. 
Tea, coffee, pepper, drugs and medicines, and finally even 
salt was unobtainable. The Confederate currency, brought 
in and accepted with such pride, began to depreciate in 
value until prices under it were nearly prohibitive. 

A pound of pepper cost $300, a pair of boots was $80 
and of shoes $35, while a turkey would bring $20 and a 
sheep $50. A half bushel of salt, gospel measure lacking, 
cost $16 in United States money or its equivalent in cot- 
ton at Helena, from which point most of the stores for the 
village came. For coffee various substitutes were used, 
parched okra seeds or rye and even sweet potatoes cooked 
to a crisp ; for tea, sassafras root was usually the substi- 
tute, and became such a favorite that it can be found on 
many pretentious Southern tables to this time. Quinine 
was a necessity in view of the malaria which haunted the 
vicinity of the river. The inability to procure this drug 
caused great physical distress. Salt was obtained by dig- 
ging up the dirt floors of the smoke houses, where for 
years the well-salted hams had dripped while smoking. 
The dirt was placed in water and the salt went into solu- 
tion. The water was then drained off and evaporated, 
leaving the salt as a result. It was a tedious process but 
the wastefulness of former years in this case proved a 
veritable blessing. 

The dreaded " Yanks" had possession of the Missis- 
sippi River along the Arkansas border. Memphis, the 
pride of the middle Southern states, came into the hands 
of the Union, much to the consternation of her Arkansas 

[52] 



neighbors, and the now hated stars and stripes floated de- 
fiantly from the court house. Gradually the Father of 
Waters yielded to the Union forces and its tributaries 
and sub-tributaries were opened to the boats bearing Old 
Glory. And yet so saturated were the people with the 
idea that the Southern hosts were unconquerable that they 
did not realize the full meaning and measure of the con- 
quests thus far obtained until one day the town of Mount 
Adams became panic stricken at the cry : 

"The Yanks are coming! The Yanks are coming!" 
Out onto the bluff ran the entire population, in terrified 
awe. Sure enough, the long line of gunboats and trans- 
ports were slowly moving up the river like a huge serpent. 
Unobserved, Colonel Wheat's cavalry had crept to an ad- 
joining bluff which formed a natural fortification and 
opened fire with four or five hundred double-barrelled 
shot-guns, each loaded with three buckshot and a minnie 
ball. Their fire was directed upon a transport loaded 
almost to the guards with Union soldiers, and the havoc 
was terrible. Many were killed and wounded. 

The non-combatants, among whom was the ten-year-old 
soldier, Bascom B. Clarke, were stunned and dazed at the 
tragedy. Before they could recover from their surprise 
the leading gunboat sounded its whistle signalling the 
others to attack, turned and fired a broadside of shot and 
shell, while from far down the river came the raking fire 
of another. But the cavalry departed as silently as they 
came. On account of the high banks the shells thrown 
did not reach the main part of the village, but exploded a 
mile beyond. One grape-shot struck the house of Dr. 
Bagby, which subsequently became the home of Bob 
Crockett. When the first gunboat rounded to, and began 
to shoot, Bascom started for home, and the details of that 
trip from the bluff to his mother are not very accurate in 
his mind. He only knew that he heard the thunder of 
the first gun, and then found he had covered the entire 
distance to shelter in an incredibly short space of time. 
The celerity with which he moved brought to his mind 

[53] 



in later days that old story of the negro witness who was 
testifying in a shooting case: 

"How long after the first shot was the second one 
fired?" asked the examining lawyer. 

"About three seconds, sah." 

1 ' Where were you when the first shot was fired ? ' ' 

"'Bout ten feet from de man what was shootin'." 

"Where were you when the second shot was fired?" 

" 'Bout ten squares down street, sah." 

The children were huddled into the houses with the 
women, and doors were locked and barred, for all ex- 
pected an avenging host to land and destroy everything 
in sight. Fear blanched the faces of the older people, not 
for themselves, but for the helpless ones among them, for 
had they not been repeatedly told that Yankee presence 
meant tyranny, oppression and a negro uprising? But 
the troops were not landed. No answer coming from the 
bluff to the fire of the gunboats, they proceeded cautiously 
up the river. 

So far as being prepared for an uprising, the colored 
people were as frightened as the whites, for the terror 
of their masters and mistresses and the constant remind- 
ers uttered in their presence that they were the cause of 
the entire trouble, kept them constantly in a state of fear. 
In their centuries of absolute dependence on these people 
the negroes had an inherited homage to their owners, and 
a fear of their displeasure. Even their hope of freedom, 
if, indeed, such a hope did possess their minds, and un- 
spoken prayers for the success of the boys in blue, could 
not overcome in a day this hereditary homage and fear. 
They kept rather close to their quarters and followed the 
routine of work assigned to them just as they had done 
before the war began. So they helped to feed and sup- 
port the army and the people who were insisting on their 
remaining in slavery. 



[54] 



CHAPTER VII. 

The chaotic condition of affairs was apparent even to 
the children who could not understand. Wandering bands 
of bushwhackers menacing alike those loyal to the South 
and the Northern invaders kept the people in a constant 
state of anxiety. The second bombardment of the village 
was due to one of these marauding bands. They fired 
from the same bluff on some gunboats convoying trans- 
ports. Not only did the gunboats shell the town, but a 
force was landed and cleaned out every store, including 
that of Colonel James Thomas Upshire Hawkins, the drill 
master of Mount Adams' first contribution to the Confed- 
eracy. They took his last cheese, carried off his pet squir- 
rels, and emptied out his liquor, an outrage no true son of 
Arkansas could see any possible excuse for. 

"Damn 'em ! If they didn't want to drink it why didn't 
they leave it for them that does?" remarked one old fel- 
low who saw the material for his daily drams thus rudely 
wasted. 

The bushwhackers, having performed their usual act of 
tantalization, had rapidly moved away and left the inno- 
cent people of the town to suffer for their acts. But that 
was true all through the war. The ones who suffered the 
most and the keenest, and the ones who had the most pri- 
vations, were not those who started or conducted the con- 
flict, but those who, not participating, had to bear the 
brunt of its results. The Southern women, who patiently 
met the problems of daily existence, uninspired by the 
cheers of fellows in battle, unsupported by the feeling 
that they were part of a struggle in a great cause; who, 
month in and month out, were compelled to answer the 
question of their children, "Why doesn't papa come 
home?" and who met the rigors of absolute poverty un- 
complainingly and with rare fortitude; these women de- 

[55] 



serve a monument, a pure white shaft, rising somewhere 
toward the eternal heavens. 

On the second visit of the Yankees little Bascom, who 
had discovered that he was not killed by the presence of 
the Yankees the first time, was an interested, though 
somewhat removed spectator. The first time he had flown 
to his mother and grandmother for protection, and they, 
though in great fear themselves, had soothed and quieted 
him and kept him close until the danger had passed. 

Soon afterwards the grandmother closed her eyes and 
joined Grandfather on the other side of the dark river. 
The end came in peaceful belief that all was well with 
her, and with a smile and a blessing she bade farewell to 
the little family group around her bedside. Death here 
was no conqueror: he was the herald of brightness and 
glory. 

"Don't cry, honey," she said to Bascom. "I'm only 
goin' over the river to meet Grandfather. I'll wait theah 
foh you-all when you come. Praise God from whom all 
blessings flow! I'm goin' home!" 

With sadness, yet with absolute faith the body of the 
old lady was placed in a grave on the hillside beside 
Grandfather. 

The times grew desperately hard. More and more diffi- 
cult did it become to get the necessaries of life. The 
Yankee blockade was so efficient that it was almost impos- 
sible to obtain anything not raised in the immediate neigh- 
borhood, and with the purchasing power of the currency 
continually going down under the advance of the Federal 
forces, but little could be bought. Christmas of 1862 
found the Clarkes in poor condition to celebrate, and the 
sacrifices made by the father and mother in an endeavor 
to give some character to the occasion were little under- 
stood by the other members of the family. The Colonel 
had sold a little cotton he had taken on a debt. It was 
bought by Colonel Redman, a wealthy planter whose plan- 
tation was across the river from Mount Adams. Besides 
what he raised he had been buying from his neighbors, 

[56] 



and had it safely hidden in the timber and canebrakes of 

the bottoms. 

Colonel Clarke, after selling the cotton, took a pillow 
case and brought it home half filled with flour, purchased 
with the cotton money. After the children were in bed 
Christmas Eve, Mrs. Clarke had made some ginger cake 
figures, with scanty sweetening, for Christmas gifts. 
Then, for the feast day dinner, hot biscuit and butter, 
fresh fried pork and parched corn coffee constituted the 
the menu. God had not forsaken the Clarke family on 
this Christmas day, and the Colonel's prayer of thanks- 
giving as they all sat down to the meal was echoed in the 
hearts of all. 

It was soon after this that the Colonel undertook a 
journey to Helena. The supply of quinine at the Kod- 
jesky store had given out and in that malarial district 
such a condition was little less than a calamity. It was 
therefore absolutely required that some one should under- 
take the hazardous journey to Helena for the drug. Colo- 
nel Clarke volunteered to go, and succeeded in getting 
through the lines and out again with the precious medi- 
cine. Before reaching Mount Adams, however, he was 
taken ill as a result of his exposure. He finally arrived 
home, and was given the best care and treatment possible, 
but he did not rally and was soon laid in the cemetery. 

Consternation seized the family, for they had never 
dreamed of a condition arising by which they would be 
deprived of the support and counsel of this strong man. 
Full of resource, possessed of indomitable energy, never 
deterred from his purpose by any obstacle, not only his 
own family but the entire community had come to rely 
upon him in times of stress. The stricken mother, who 
had depended more and more upon her idolized husband, 
was weighed down by a grief too great to be spoken. 
For a time she tried to keep the family together and 
minister to them, but weary in body and broken in spirit, 
the task was too great for her, and in a very short time 
she, too, found the narrow habitation prepared for all. 

It seemed the climax to all misfortune. The eldest 

[57] 



daughter, Mary, burdened with sorrow, sought to find 
some way by which they could all remain together. But 
it seemed impossible. The home, once full of happiness 
and with cheerfulness and laughter predominating, with 
splendid characters and living examples of piety, integ- 
rity and heart goodness, was now desolate. The homes of 
practically everybody in the neighborhood were opened to 
them, one offering to provide for this one, and another 
for that, until it seemed best to separate. No other solu- 
tion to the problem presented itself, and with anguish of 
soul the girl finally gave up to the inevitable. The al- 
ready meager larder furnished but scanty hope for sub- 
sistence, and would have been entirely depleted had it not 
been for the generosity and thoughtfulness of the neigh- 
bors. None too well provided for themselves, they each 
contributed a little until there was enough for the time. 

But Mary realized this could not go on for long, so she 
gathered the little brood for a council. With aching heart 
and tears streaming down her cheeks the sister tenderly 
outlined the situation, and the provision made for each. 
The smaller children, used to having some one reason and 
think out the line of conduct for them, wondered why 
they could not go on living as they had before, but did 
not voice objection. The older ones viewed the matter 
from all sides, and then with a sigh acknowledged that it 
was the only thing they could do. And the family was 
scattered, never to be together again as a family. 

Bascom was given a home with George Ramsdale, who 
had four beautiful daughters and no son. Not only was 
he made welcome, but the planter wanted to adopt him. 
The plantation was remote from the river and up to this 
time had not been molested by either the " Yanks" or the 
bushwhackers. Here he was well provided for, and every- 
thing done to make him feel that he was part of the fam- 
ily. Mary Margaret, the oldest daughter, was attending 
Miss Jeffreys' school, ten miles away. 

One very pleasant duty assigned to the new "son" was 
the accompanying of Mary Margaret to her school, so as 
to "carry her hoss" back. The girl rode the swiftest run- 

[58] 



ning horse in the neighborhood, a little chestnut sorrel, 
which she owned. Bascom was astride a magnificent big 
bay which possessed both speed and endurance. The chest- 
nut was a little vixen, but in the hands of Miss Mary was 
like a kitten. The big horse was staid and steady, but 
when aroused could make the ground fly under his feet. 

"I understand," said the planter, as they prepared to 
start for school one day, "I understand the Yankee sol- 
diers are in the neighborhood, and I want you to try and 
avoid them if possible, for they have a failing of 'trading 
hosses' whenever they have an opportunity of bettering 
their stock." 

1 'I'd like to see 'em catch me," said Mary. "I could 
give 'em a two mile staht on a fouah mile cou'se and beat 
'em a mile an' a half." 

"An' thah ain't nothin' can beat Big Ben," piped in 
Bascom, "'ceptin' Jennie," he added gallantly. 

"Jennie and Ben may both be fast," said the planter, 
"but remember neither of them can beat a minnie ball 
when it decides to take paht in the race. Don't depend 
enti'ly on the swiftness of the hosses, but use a little 
judgment. You don't want to lose Jennie and I don't 
want to lose Ben, so be careful. 

Both promised to exercise due caution and started out. 
They reached the school in safety, with not a sign of the 
despised Northerners. On the way back, the horses going 
at good pace, the lad dashed into a camp of blue-coated 
soldiers. For the first time he heard the "click, click" 
of a dozen Springfield rifles and the stern command: 

"Halt!" 

"Say, Bub, where in the devil are you going at that 
breakneck speed?" asked the sentinel. 

"I'm goin' home, suh!" 

"Want to trade horses?" asked a second. 

"No, suh, they's not my hosses." 

A rapid fire of questions were shot at him, with scarcely 
time for reply. Just then the commanding officer ap- 
proached and the guard stood at attention. 

[59] 



"My son," said Colonel Caldwell, in a fatherly way, 
"have you seen any of our good Southern boys around 
here lately?" 

"No, suh." 

"Have you seen any Yankees, either?" he continued. 

With all his fear and apprehension the boy could not 
refrain from smiling at the question. Who else, in those 
devastating times, with starvation staring them in the 
face, who else could afford bright, spick and span blue 
uniforms and polished guns with real bayonets excepting 
the Yankees? 

"Not till I seen you-all, suh," he responded. "An' 
now, please suh, can I go on home? It's agettin' dahk, 
an' I don' know the road very well." 

"But, Colonel," broke in the sentinel who had first 
challenged, "look what a durn good chance to trade horses 
and my old plug is most give out." 

"Not with that boy," said the Colonel. "He has told 
us the truth and he is but a child." 

Just pausing long enough to say, "Thank you, suh!" 
the boy chirped to the horses and in an instant was giving 
them a test of their best speed, almost expecting to hear 
the shots of the muskets and the singing of bullets as they 
ran. He told his story when he arrived at the plantation, 
and for a long time the planter sat in deep thought. Kind- 
ness, consideration and generosity, as displayed by Colonel 
Caldwell, did not agree with the pictures of Yankee ava- 
rice and harshness so freely circulated by the shrieking 
politicians. 

That night the horses were safely hidden away where 
the Yankees might not see them and yield to the tempta- 
tion to exercise their proverbial trading propensities. The 
family were unstinted in their praise of Clarke, and the 
women folk were inclined to pet him, to which proceed- 
ing he had serious objections. 

He wanted to hurry up and be a man and anything 
that bore savor of coddling or pity was repugnant. Ah ! 
when he was a man : He dreamed of the things he would 
do. Of course the family would all be together again and 

[60] 



what pleasure it would be in saying to them: "You 
needn't suffer for anything in the world. Ill take care of 
you." lie would put his arms about his beloved sister 
Bfary, who had loved him and cared for him like a little 
mother, and tell her how happy he was that he could take 
the burdens from her shoulders. And sisters Lucy, Addie 
and Annie would have a palace to live in, with all the 
"nigger" servants required to render work unneces- 
sary. Brother Will would acknowledge him as an equal 
instead of the tagging "little brother," and the two of 
them would take their fine double-barrelled shotguns and 
go hunting together just as often as they pleased. It was 
too bad that the baby, Roberta Crockett Clarke, — born in 
Arkansas and named for Bob Crockett, — had died, for it 
would be fine to have her to play with and provide for. 
With sorrow he knew that he could not have his father 
and mother and grandfather and grandmother. But God 
had taken these and the best he could do would be to 
reunite the fragmentary family and take care of them. 

Then, of course, all these dream plans would include 
his marriage with Fannie Waffords, a young lady then 
eleven years of age, whom he had selected as his life com- 
panion. Bob Waffords, the father, had not yet been ap- 
prised of the happy fate in store for his daughter, but 
when Bascom went up to him loaded with wealth and 
crowned with honors and demanded his daughter, he 
would be compelled to submit. Bob might remember when 
young Clarke proposed to shoot him for making threats 
against the favorite Clarke hog, which, with rare gift of 
selection, had chosen to eat up one of Waffords' baby 
goats. But all this would be waved aside in the "beauti- 
ful days to come," as beneath the dignity of a Clarke to 
remember, and Bob would be proud to turn to his neigh- 
bors and say: 

"This is my son-in-law, Bascom B. Clarke, Esquire." 
And so he dreamed and dreamed of the time when he 
should be a man, and the devil came and offered to make 
a man of him right away. 

[61] 



CHAPTER VIII. 



"Old Man" Smith, a tanner by trade, lived in a place 
remote from the highway, where he had squatted on com- 
ing west from North Carolina. One Sunday morning Bas- 
com was on his way to see his sister Mary, who was with 
a family who owned the grist mill which did the custom 
work of grinding for that neighborhood. As he came to 
the highway Smith was just passing with an ox-team, 
going toward the mill. 

"Whah you-all goin', sonny," said Smith. 

The boy informed him. 

"Come on in the wagon an' ride, then, foh that's whah 
I'm goin'." 

The loquacious Smith entered into immediate conversa- 
tion. 

"So youah fatheh was Colonel Clarke! So, ho! A 
mighty fine man! A mighty fine man! You-all can be 
proud to have such a man foh a fatheh! Whah you-all 
livin' now?" 

The boy informed him. Now, it happened Smith was 
not specially fond of the Ramsdales. 

"Oh, ho ! "What do you-all do theah? Jest strut aroun' 
an' ac' a 'ristocrat, I s'pose! They ain't nuthin' foh a 
man to do on one of them plantations. Even the niggers 
ain' what they used to be, ner what they was back thah 
in Nawth Ca'lina whah I cum from. It took men to han- 
dle the niggers back thah. They wan't none o' this wishy- 
washy stuff they have on plantations in Arkansas. Why, 
I've killed mo'n one of 'em makin' 'em toe the mark and 
wo'k. I was ovehseer on one of the biggest plantations 
in Nawth Ca'lina, an' it took some man to be a ovehseer 
in those days! What you goin' to do with yourse'f when 
you get growed up, ef you-all don' do nothin' to ha 'den 
youse'f now? You-all air a sma't boy, too sma't to be 

[62] 



layin ' 'roun' a plantation. They ain't nobody theah but 
a lot o' lollypaloosin' wimmen, an' they's too saft to make 
a man o' a boy. Now, if you-all was to my house, they'd 
be some chance o' youah bein' somethin' sometime. Why, 
my five year ol' boy's mo' o' a man than haff the planters' 
sons in the neighbo'hood. You'll nevah git ter be no 
man at Ramsedale's. Come on ovah and live with we- 
uns, an' you'll be a man afo' you know it. An' then 
you-all kin do big things." 

It was wily bait, and it took a hold on the lad. To be 
a man and not wait the long, long years! Soon he was 
telling the old man his hopes and wishes, unburdening 
his soul to this evident sympathetic listener. And Smith 
was quick to take advantage of the knowledge thus ob- 
tained. He painted in glowing colors the great times 
they had, the opportunities for wealth, and the freedom 
from restraint accompanying the life led at the Smith 
place. The final result was that Bascom was persuaded 
to join fortunes with the Smiths. 

It was a rough life into which he thus injected himself, 
and a striking contrast to the refinement, cleanliness and 
godliness of the Clarke household. It made Bascom home- 
sick. Vicious tempers and blows were daily and hourly 
occurrences on the part of the man. The whole atmos- 
phere was surcharged with brutality and ignorance. 
What a place in which to rear and train the future citizen 
of a great republic. Eight husky children, two or three 
sons-in-law, besides the "Old Man," formed the family. 
Quarrels were frequent, and it was but a short time be- 
fore young Clarke found the glint of the life all worn off. 

The old man, having no "niggers" to drive, drove 
everybody else who came under his power. His children 
were kicked and cuffed, beaten and scolded, and Bascom 
came in for his share. He might have retreated even then, 
but he had no place to go. He felt that he could not re- 
turn to the Ramsdales, for he had deserted them for the 
Smiths and was ashamed to go back. He did not realize 
that they gladly would have forgiven him for leaving, 
and would not hold the ten-year-old boy to too strict a 

[63] 



standard in the exercise of judgment. But there was no 
one to advise him, so he made up his mind to bide his 
time and trust in God. 

Nobody could take away the influence of the home. So 
he suffered in silence and accepted the conditions with- 
out murumur, believing that in time the way would be 
opened for him to better things. But the disappointment 
was intense when he saw the weeks go by and the prom- 
ised nearness to manhood, which had been held out to him 
by "Old Man" Smith, failed to materialize, and he found 
himself still just little, lonely, homesick boy. But God 
was doing His work in His own way. 

One night the "guerillas," who were more to be dreaded 
than the Yankees, because they preyed alike on friend 
and foe, made their appearance at the Smith place and 
captured the old man, proposing to kill him, ostensibly 
because he had not joined himself to the Southern cause. 
He escaped, and under cover of the night made his way to 
the Union lines, at DeValls Bluff, where he claimed to be 
a persecuted Union sympathizer and asked protection. 
The colonel told him the best protection he could give 
them would be the removal of the family from the neigh- 
borhood to some place up north, where they would be 
safe. This offer Smith eagerly accepted, for it would give 
him a chance to see the country without expense to him- 
self, and if there was one thing more than another he 
thoroughly enjoyed, it was "movin' somewheres." 

The second day thereafter, accordingly, Bascom Clarke 
was surprised to see his friend, Colonel Caldwell, who had 
interceded in his behalf when the sentries had halted him. 
The colonel, with three hundred cavalry from the Third 
Michigan, and a forage train of three six-mule teams and 
government wagons, appeared at the Smith farm, loaded 
up everything of value and drove through the blazing sun 
to DeValls Bluff, forty miles away, across Grand Prairie. 

Back in the middle of the cornfield was an acre of 
watermelons just ready for picking. The milk from twenty 
cows had been churned in three big six-gallon stone jars 
and the buttermilk was fresh when the soldiers arrived. 

[64] 



The soldiers were hungry, for they had been living on 
hard tack and salt pork for months. After the few per- 
sonal effects allowed were loaded in the wagons, the Colo- 
nel told Smith he couldn't haul the coop of chickens which 
were all ready for shipment, but took out three dollars in 
greenbacks and bought them from the old man. Then 
the soldiers were told about the melons and sweet potatoes 
back in the cornfield. 

What a scene ! Some made for the melon patch and 
others for the chickens. Old roosters, young pullets and 
everything of the sort were caught, killed and confiscated 
to the use of the invading forces of the United States of 
America. One soldier discovered the three jars of butter- 
milk. Down into a jar went his canteen and the conse- 
quent "blub, blub, blub" attracted the attention of others. 
Soon there was a good-natured rivalry over the possession 
of this delicacy. One soldier grabbed an almost empty 
jar and holding it up drank from it while a stream of 
buttermilk poured down both sides of his face. The arte- 
sian well was drained of water, the mules hitched to the 
big army wagons, the bugle sounded "Forward!" and 
the lad was on his way to the Union lines. 

While the soldiers were in the melon patch, to which 
Bascom had piloted them, one of them had thrown aside 
his haversack, revealing among other things some WHITE 
BREAD! Ye gods! WHITE BREAD! He seized a 
piece and hardly waiting permission from its owner got 
his teeth into it. 

"Keep her, bub, she's yourn. You showed us the melon 
patch, and you're welcome to the gun waddin'." 

Gun wadding! Shades of Epicurus! What sacrilege! 
This was the kind of bread that Jesus meant when He 
spoke the words: "Give us this day our daily bread," 
according to young Clarke's firmly fixed opinion. It was 
the kind of bread for which his father returned reverent 
thanks, and the only kind that ever graced a Clarke table, 
before or since, except on rare occasions when wheat flour 
was not obtainable. Since the home had been broken up 
he had seen practically nothing but corn pone, and his 
5 [65] 



inherited and cultivated repugnance to that article of 
diet, so universally used in that region, and his long en- 
forced abstinence from the bread of his fathers, put Bas- 
com in a frame of mind where this white loaf represented 
the greatest possession on earth. He carefully cared for 
it, and in the army wagon all the way across the prairie, 
amidst the heat and dust, like a chicken choked on corn 
meal, he tried to swallow this delicacy of delicacies with- 
out any water. 

At night the party were safe in the lines of the Union 
army at De Vails Bluff. 



1661 



CHAPTER IX. 

The camp at DeValls Bluff proved a great attraction 
to Bascom. Night had fallen when they arrived, and for 
a long time before they reached the town they had been 
passing the outposts. He had heard the challenge of the 
pickets and witnessed the giving of the countersign, that 
magic word which proved the friendly character of the 
party. He had seen the sentries step back, bring their 
guns to a " carry," and give the freedom of the road to 
the cavalcade with the refugees under its protection. 
Farther along they began to catch the twinkle of the 
campfires, and discern the shadowy figures around them, 
and then they suddenly found themselves in the midst of 
a tented city. The soldiers not on guard duty were lying 
around or sitting in groups singing, laughing and evi- 
dently thoroughly enjoying themselves, as though no such 
thing as war and the gore of battlefields ever entered 
their thoughts. 

The refugees were assigned to quarters and given ra- 
tions, which included, much to Bascom 's delight, more 
white bread. Not until they appeared, however, did he 
dispose of the carefully preserved remnant of the loaf 
contributed by the soldier of the melon patch. But with 
plenty to eat and a safe place to stay, the boy soon forgot 
everything in the luxurious oblivion of childhood's sleep. 

A cannon shot reverberated from bluff to bluff, and 
brought Bascom from his blanket to his feet. It was 
immediately followed by a long roll of the drums. Trem- 
bling with fear and excitement, and fully believing a 
battle was on and he in the midst of it, the lad made bold 
to ask a hurrying soldier if there was going to be a fight. 
The soldier laughed. 

"No, bub. '1 ain't no fight. It's jest mornin' gun and 

[67] 



revilly. It's jest a noisy way they hev of tellin' ye to get 
up and wash yer face and get ready for breakfast.' ' 

Baseom, his fears quieted, with great curiosity watched 
the soldiers f or a in line, heard the roll call and saw his 
grandfather's ilag, the stars and stripes, lazily waving in 
the breeze of the hot summer morning. It was a great 
sight. Right at hand were his friends, Colonel Caldwell's 
cavalry, with the man who wanted to trade horses with 
him sitting like a statue on a fine specimen of genus 
equine. He evidently had succeeded in making a ''trade" 
to his advantage, but the lad saw with satisfaction that 
neither "Jenny" nor "Ben" constituted the cavalry- 
man's mount. After the events of yesterday, these men 
belonged to the boy and were invested with heroic attri- 
butes which would have brought a blush of pride to their 
bronzed cheeks had they realized it. Beyond the cavalry 
was the long line of infantry, and still farther along, the 
artillery. 

To the boy who had witnessed the departure of the 
Mount Adams recruits, there suddenly came a doubt as 
to the certainty of Southern success in the conflict. These 
men seemed just as strong, just as devoted to their cause, 
and just as earnest in their convictions as his fellow 
townsmen. In his wondering eyes there seemed to be 
sodiers enough at DeValls Bluff to meet all the conditions 
of war, and he was glad Bob Crockett was not there, for 
even Bob, the criterion of bravery and military genius to 
Baseom, might be killed if he came in contact with this 
array of fighters. So interested was the boy that he was 
totally unprepared to see the lines melt away as suddenly 
as they had formed, and the men go back to their quarters 
for breakfast. He then remembered that he had not had 
his breakfast as yet, so he returned to join the Smith fam- 
ily, the members of which were already busily engaged 
in converting loyal rations into rebel tissue. 

Truly a forlorn little creature he was, — homespun 
trousers, worn and frayed, held up by one "gallus," and 
a hickory shirt, completed the sum total of his raiment. 
He had no hat or shoes, so bareheaded, barefooted^ and 

[68] 



lonely, he seemed driftwood on the sea of humanity. But 
in his heart was hope, youth's effervescence to the still 
waters of despair. 

Old Man Smith began to talk about what he would do 
up North where he was going. He held the government 
responsible for the war and the w T ar was responsible for 
his being an outcast among his people, and therefore he 
proposed to take advantage of the government's having 
him and his family on its hands. It seemed almost as 
though he believed the United States ought to give him 
a pension, so that he could live the rest of his days with- 
out work, in return for his compulsory banishment from 
Arkansas. To Bascom it was a serious situation. In the 
little cemetery at Mount Adams and scattered about the 
neighborhood, were all who ever loved him or cared what 
became of him. There were neither ties of sympathy nor 
comradeship between him and the Smiths. 

One day an Arkansas farmer brought in a number of 
cattle to the camp for sale. A yearling steer escaped 
from the herd and went cavorting in every direction, de- 
fying every effort to capture it. The farmer, worn out in 
his efforts to catch it, finally offered two dollars to the 
parties who would secure the animal. Here was where 
Bascom 's genius came in play. He held a hurried con- 
sultation with the Smith boys, and big "Bull," the head 
of the Smith pack of hounds, was called. The boys took 
him out where he could get a good look at the calf, and 
yelled in chorus : 

"Sic 'em!" 

The dog sized up the "critter," quickly judged what 
was wanted, and was off. The calf saw him coming, and 
with tail high commenced a zig-zag course through the 
camp streets, around the tents, past the headquarters, 
out into the open field and back again, stumbled over a 
tent rope, and was on his feet again, then doubled on his 
tracks and on like the wind. "Bull" knew his business, 
however, and watching his chance, made a dive and got 
the beast by the nose and held on. The steer shook, 
pawed, backed up and rushed forward, but could not 

[69] 



overcome the disadvantage of this clinging thing on the 
nose. 

The boys by this time were close at hand and in a few 
minutes had the now thoroughly subdued steer roped and 
delivered to the owner. The two dollars reward was given 
to them and divided. Bascom's share was ten cents, 
which he proceeded to spend for gingerbread, a dainty 
that had so long been absent from his bill of fare that 
it seemed almost as if he must have dreamed that there 
was such a thing as gingerbread. He did full justice to 
the delicacy. It was well he did, for it was a long, long 
time before he had another taste. 

For two weeks the refugees were within the Union 
lines at the Bluff, waiting for the coming of a transport 
bound down the river. The life of inactivity began to 
pall on them all. And it was a relief to everybody when 
the steamer Kenton, convoyed by two gunboats, poked 
her nose against the landing and made fast. Then all 
was hurry and bustle, for the Kenton was under orders 
to take on board the Second Indiana Battery, which was 
going home, its term of service having expired. 

The refugees, who included several families besides the 
Smith contingent and quite a number of negroes, were to 
go on this boat also, this being the easiest way of ridding 
the army of the burden of their maintenance, and at the 
same time guaranteeing their safety. All of the white peo- 
ple in the party were suspected of being more or less in 
sympathy with the cause of the Northerners, and a mere 
suspicion was all that was necessary to endanger their 
lives if they remained. The armed bands of guerillas did 
not wait for an overt act in favor of the north, but often 
used a purely imagined Union sentiment as an excuse for 
murder and pillage. 

This was clearly demonstrated in the case of Old Man 
Smith, for by no process of reasonable logic could he be 
called a Union sympathizer. But he was wont at times 
to harangue against the unequal distribution of wealth 
and inveigh against aristocracy. As a result his tongue 
would run away with itself and he gave utterance to 

[70] 



words in a spirit of braggadocio which could be twisted 
into criticism of the acts of the Confederacy. He knew 
personally many of the men in the guerilla band which 
had captured him and they knew he had recognized them. 
As they were outlawed by both armies, this informal ion 
would probably result in serious trouble for them if dis- 
closed. So Smith knew if they got him again he would 
have a very few minutes to live. Hence, he would rather 
take advantage of his false position as a Union sympa- 
thizer and thus escape certain death at their hands. 

The fact that Bascom knew that he was not a Union 
man, from many things he had said in the freedom of his 
home, and the fear that the boy might in some way con- 
vey this knowledge to the military authorities, undoubt- 
edly secured to young Clarke immunity for a time from 
the harsh treatment usually accorded him. Smith had 
been furnishing leather to the Southern Confederacy al- 
most from the beginning of the war, and up to the time 
the blockade had made it practically impossible to dis- 
pose of his product, he had prospered to an unusual de- 
gree. Now, with the market for his leather gone, through 
the coming of the Union forces and the misunderstanding 
between himself and his old neighbors which imperiled 
his life, he was cunning enough to use the situation to 
his advantage and get out of the country under the pro- 
tection of the flag he had despised. 

Bascom had heard that they were to go with the 
"Iloosier" battery, so he went over to the quarters of 
these men to see what sort of a looking creature a 
"Iloosier" was, expecting to find something unusual in 
appearance. Not yet having had his mental machinery 
adjusted to Indiana standards, he could discern no spe- 
cial distinction, and was somewhat disappointed. Later 
in life, when saturated with Indiana spirit, he became so 
thorough a Iloosier himself that he, too, believed that 
God had used a little more of His likeness when he created 
the people of that commonwealth than when He made 
the rest of mankind. But that evolution or transition to 

[71] 



the high state of human perfection belonging distinctively 
to Indiana is properly another part of this story. 

"Where's yer hat, bub?" asked one of the men whom 
he was watching getting his things together for the move. 

"Lost it, suh," was the reply. 

"That's too bad, by Josh! You 'n' your pa and the 
rest of the family 's goin' north with us, be yuh?" 

"He ain't my father, suh." 

"Ain't he? Where's your father? In the army fight- 
in' agin us?" 

"No, suh; my father, Colonel James Clarke, is dead, 
suh." 

"By Josh, that's too bad. Where's your ma?" 

"My mother's dead, too, suh." 

"By Josh, that's too bad, son. Sure I'm sorry for you. 
But yer goin' north with us, ain't yuh?" 

"Yes, suh, I reckon I am." 

"By Josh, that's the boy! Come on up with us to old 
Indiana, where you'll have a chance to grow up and where 
there ain't nobody prouder 'n nobody else. The common 
people up there 's all 'ristocrats, and the 'ristocrats is 
jest like you 'n' me. They reckon people by what they 
is, not what they pretend to be. We ain't much shakes 
on style, but we're an ace high royal flush when it comes 
to bein' right. When Adam and Eve got through with 
the Garden of Eden God gave the snake to South Caro- 
lina and set the garden down in Indiana. South Carolina 
wanted the snake and Indiana wanted the garden. You 
ain't ever been in Indiana, son, but stay with us, by Josh, 
and we'll show you what livm' is. I don't believe yuh 
ever eat a punkin pie in yer life, did yer? No, I thought 
not. Nobody never eat no punkin pie unless 'twas in In- 
diana. They have imitations other places, but there's as 
much difference between a Indiana punkin pie and what 
they call punkin pie other places, as there is atween a 
slipp 'ry elm poultice and a mustard plaster. Fer a bruise 
that needs suthin' coolin' and soothin', a slipp 'ry elm 
poultice is jest the thing. It'll make you forget you ever 
had a ache er a pain, and you'll drop off to sleep like a 

[72] 



nussin' baby. When yer in a terrible state they'll slap a 
mustard plaster on ye, and the dern thing '11 begin to burn 
and blister and you'll beg 'em to take it off, but they'll 
leave it on till it hurts worse 'n the original ache, and 
then you're supposed to be cured. An Indiana punkin 
pie '11 slide gently down, feeling good all the way, then 
it'll softly nestle itself in the cozy corner o' yer stum- 
mick and telegraph back to yer brain to quit worryin', 
everything all right; then it'll hum 'Home, Sweet Home,' 
and you'll go to sleep and dream of angels fannin' yuh 
softly with their wings and smoothin' yer hair back from 
yer for'ead like mother used to do. And you'll wake up 
a new man. But you got to be tarnal hungry to eat the 
other kind. If you do, you'll wish you hadn't, and you'll 
feel so punk you'll forget you're hungry." 

"Say, Bill," drawled his bunk mate, "shet down on 
yer aeolian harp and help me pack." 

"All right, but wait a minit. I'm givin' a lesson on 
Indiana to a poor kid what don't know nothin' about it, 
and the packin' can go to thunder till I get through. 
We're goin' home, Jim, home to Indiana. Do you realize 
it? And this boy's mind's got to be put in shape to stand 
the shock of the change before we get there. Say, son, 
here's a cap for ye. I got a new one, and this one '11 be 
all right for you, and you don't have to go bareheaded. 
You see that flag up there?" [pointing to the camp colors.] 

"Yes, suh." 

"Well, mind you touch that cap this way [indicating] 
every time you go by it." 

"Yes, suh." 

"Do you know what flag that is, boy?" 

"Yes, suh, it's the flag my grandfather fought for in 
the War of 1812." 

"By Josh, is that so? Say, Bill, here's a Yankee sol- 
dier by descent! Well, son, if your grandfather fit for 
that flag, it'll be good enough for you to live under, and 
it's the one good thing in this country that's just as good 
in any other place as it is in Indiana, though sometimes 
I think the air in Indiana makes its colors look brighter, 

[73] 



and the wind touches it a little more feelin'ly there than 
anywhere else in the United States." 

"Come on, Jim, let's get this packin' done er we'll 
never git to Indiana." 

Proud in the possession of his new head-gear, Bascom 
walked back and forth past the flag several times and 
brought his hand up in salute. From that time on it was 
his flag. On his return to the Smith family, various com- 
ments were made on his appearance, and some insulting 
remarks on the uniform it represented slipped out from 
more than one, but the old man stopped them quickly. 

"No more o' that ! Hang on to you-all pizen togues till 
we git somewheres." 

The next morning the refugees went on board a trans- 
port, on which they found themselves mixed up with a 
lot of colored people. The old training was not gone, 
however, and the negroes kept to themselves and did not 
seek to mingle with the whites. The Indiana regiment 
marched on board with the fifes and drums playing "The 
Girl I Left Behind Me." The guns convoying the trans- 
port took their stations, and soon the order came to 
"cast off." 

Just before the boat left, Mr. Elliott, at whose home 
Bascom 's sister Mary was living, came on board and 
sought out the boy. Did he know how homesick the lad 
was? Could the man see the little chap's wretched pre- 
tense at being cheerful when his heart was breaking for 
the companionship and love of his own folk? Could it 
be possible Mr. Elliott was blind to the fact that the boy 
would go back with him even then, and was only waiting 
for the suggestion to be made f Quietly Mr. Elliott spoke : 

"I've thought it all over, Bascom, and I can't advise 
you to stay. I don't know what theah is to stay for. God 
alone knows what is ahead of us. I believe theah is mo' 
to hope for up yonder where you-all are going, and I don't 
believe you'll forget you are a Clarke, and bear the name 
of good, honorable, Christian people. Whatever you are, 
and wherever you are, you will be either a credit or dis- 
credit to them. They have laid a foundation of good in- 

[74] 






fluenee and good teaching. Anything else there is to you 
will be builded by yourself. Your sister sends her love 
and says to tell you she'll pray for you every day. Mary 
is a good girl, Bascom, and for her Bake, as well as your 
own, keep your name clean. Good-bye and God bless 
you." 

"Good-bye, suh," said Bascom, choking back the tears. 
"Tell Mary I won't forget, suh, and thanky for comin', 
suh!" The last word from home had been spoken. Mr. 
Elliott crossed the gang plank to the landing and as the 
boat swung into the stream he waved a farewell from 
the bank. 



[75] 



CHAPTER X. 

Life on the Kenton was a novel experience to the refu- 
gees, for few of them had ever been "down the river' ' 
before. As the transport and protecting gunboats swung 
out into the stream they crowded the rail to watch the 
receding shore, and call or wave their farewells. The 
soldiers off duty were all on hand to give parting cheer 
to their Indiana comrades. 

A great sense of loneliness came over Bascom. The 
noise and bustle of starting on their long journey, and 
the business of getting settled on the transport did not 
suffice to overcome the choky feeling in his throat. His 
face must have been mournful, indeed, for Jim Stone, the 
soldier who had given him the cap, hailed him: 

"Say, Johnny, you look like yuh was goin' to yer own 
funeral. Ain't homesick a 'ready, be yuh?" 

"I ain't got a home," said the boy. 

"Oh, yes, by Josh, I forgot. Well, if yuh ain't got no 
home yer headed jest the right way to git one. People 
don't have to be homeless in Indiana 'less they wants to. 
Yuh jes' keep a stiff upper lip, and yer eyes wide open, 
and yuh '11 git along all right." 

"Kin I git anythin' to do, suh?" inquired Bascom. 

1 ' Anything to do ! Work ! Why, work is so plenty in 
Indiana that I know a man who was chased so hard by it 
that he died. But he was one of the kind that was always 
afraid work would ketch him. If yer willin' to hustle 
and ain't particular to hunt fer soft-handed jobs you 
won't have to borry money to live on up there. What kin 
yuh do?" 

"Anythin' any other boy can do, suh." 

"Did yer ever shuck corn?" 

"No, suh, but I kin learn." 

"Sure yuh can, and it's some trade when its done right. 

[76] 



A good corn husker can earn good money. We'll be 
home before huskin' time and you'll hev a chance to get 
your hand in. 'Bout the first thing you'll need is a husk- 
in' peg. Never seen one, did yer? No, o' course not. 
Well, a huskin' peg is as necessary to a Hoosier as a blade 
to a knife, and an Indiana man would as soon go away 
from home 'thout his shirt as to leave his huskin' peg 
behin'." 

''Can I see yours?" asked Bascom. 

An instant's hesitation, and a choke and a splutter, 
which sounded suspiciously like a smothered chuckle, and 
then : 

"Oh, mine did you say? By Josh! You know I might 
'a' been killed or took prisoner by you Johnnies while I 
was down here eatin' hardtack and chasin' graybacks, 
and I wouldn't want to carry along anything so valuable 
as my peg. You know some people use jest common pegs, 
made o' a piece of hickory with a leather thong to put 
yer middle finger through. But I was a prize winner at 
huskin' bees, and mine was made of ebony, gold mounted, 
with a diamond as big as a marble in the butt. Then I 
had a gold cord for the finger. I'm sorry, son, I haven't 
it here to show yer, 'cause 'twould make yer eyes stick 
out like cannonballs. I put it in the bank when I went 
into the army, for I thought 'twould look kind of queer 
fer me to be hevin' so expensive a ornament on my thir- 
teen dollars per. Some of the expert shuckers hev pegs 
imported fr'm Africa, made out o' solid ivory and inlaid 
with pearls and precious stuns. A huskin' peg is a kind 
o' badge in Indiana, and no one is considered respectable 
without havin' one." 

"Do yuh think I can git one, suh?" 

"Well, by Josh, I'll make yer one, for I don't want 
you crossin' the line into the state without it." 

And so, by the good nature and kindly consideration 
of the soldier, the mind of the lad was diverted from him- 
self for the time. All the refugees began to make them- 
selves as comfortable as they could for the long trip. They 
were crowded on the lower deck of the Kenton, and any- 

[77] 



thing like cleanliness was impossible. They had enough 
to eat, such as it was, hard tack and salt pork, but they 
had real coffee, which was to them nectar of the gods, so 
long had they been deprived of it. The buoyant spirit of 
the soldiers going home was infectious, and despite the 
discomforts of the journey good feeling reigned. 

Bascom, as the boats went down the river, began to 
see familiar scenes along the shore, but was disappointed 
when darkness came before they reached Mount Adams, 
so he could not see the home town. Its twinkling lights 
seemed to signal him a farewell and bid him Godspeed. 
The memory of the happiness there and the graves in the 
cemetery surged upon him in the darkness, the tears crept 
out and rolled down his cheeks, and the stifled sobs shook 
the friendless waif. 

"Oh, Mother!'' he murmured. "I want you. I'm all 
alone." 

He seemed to hear a voice softly saying : 

"God is with you. You are in the hollow of His hand. 
Pear not!" 

And sleep was upon him, mending his broken spirits, 
assuaging his grief and resting his body. 

No chances were taken by the officers in charge of the 
gunboats and transport. All day long as they swung down 
the White River and up the Mississippi one gunboat was 
ahead and the other behind the transport. Bands of Con- 
federate cavalry were still in evidence at times all through 
the country, and the guerillas and bushwhackers were 
alert to commit depredations. It was the enemy's coun- 
try, making it advisable to use every precaution to avoid 
a surprise which would endanger the noncombatants as 
well as the soldiers on the transports. At night the boats 
were stopped, the gunboats lashed themselves on either 
side of the Kenton, and sentries paced the decks watch- 
ing for the least sign of attack. 

It was all very wonderful to Bascom. The soldiers 
going home were full of happiness at the thought of 
mingling again with their old friends. They gave him 

[78] 



wonderful accounts of the country and their word pic- 
tures were so glowing that he began to lose his homesick- 
ness and anxiously wait the time when he would sec this 
marvelous part of the United States. Old Man Smith con- 
cluded that he and those with him would go to Indiana. 
Possibly the thought that it meant a longer ride and sev- 
eral weeks more with provisions furnished by the govern- 
ment helped him make his decision. But whatever his 
motive, he accepted the proposition and announced that 
they were all going through. 

The gunboats, leading and following, were objects of 
great curiosity to the refugees, who now saw them for the 
first time near enough to note their construction. For 
the most part they were ordinary river steamers encased 
in sheet iron with armament consisting of brass cannon 
and mortars for throwing shells. Bascom, after his ob- 
servation, congratulated himself on his wisdom in hurry- 
ing to a place of safety when they fired on Mount Adams 
at the time the Confederate cavalry attacked the up- 
bound fleet. The rows of guns sticking out of the port 
holes gave them the appearance of continually showing 
their teeth and being ready to fight at the drop of the hat. 
The refugee boy secretly hoped a challenge would come 
in some manner to call for a demonstration of "sassiness" 
on the part of these ironclads. His hope was gratified. 

As the boats were slowly steaming up the Mississippi 
River, one afternoon, a man was discovered on shore wav- 
ing a white flag. The captain of the gunboat leading the 
fleet was standing by the pilot house. He called to the 
man and asked him what he wanted. 

"To be taken on board," w r as the answer. 

Back of him were the bluffs covered with timber and 
underbrush. The captain took in the situation in an in- 
stant. 

"We can't land here. Come around the next bend and 
we'll send a small boat ashore for you." 

The man disappeared and the boats moved on. When 
the boats turned the bend, several hundred soldiers were 
discovered running back from the river's edge. The am- 

[79] 



buscade had failed and they were making good time to 
get out of range of the guns. The transport was ordered 
to the opposite shore and the two gunboats opened with 
their forward batteries. For a minute it thundered and 
solid shot and screeching shells rained hot on the trail of 
the flying squadron. Great clouds of dust showed where 
the cannon balls struck and richocheted along the ground, 
with an occasional upheaval as a shell exploded. Talk 
about the noise made by the old cannon at Mount Adams ! 
Why, it was scarcely a whisper compared with this ! 

The proper rebuke having been administered to the 
band that had so dishonorably used the flag of truce to 
decoy the boats into range for murder to be committed, 
the transport was again brought into the line and the 
vessels steamed on their way. 

The refugee boy was eager to see DeSoto, Mississippi, 
when they passed, for here was the place where the Clarke 
family had crossed the river, on the journey from Vir- 
ginia to Arkansas. It was the same little weather-beaten 
hamlet and he recognized it instantly. He found Jim 
Stone, the soldier, and pointed the place out to him. It 
seemed as though this one incident brought back with 
clearness all that long journey. DeSoto was particularly 
in his mind, for when the Clarke family was coming to 
this landing to cross on the ferry the air was literally 
alive with paroquets, a sight never forgotten by the boy. 
Stone led Bascom to tell the story of his life and adven- 
tures. With a willing and sympathetic listener the boy 
found his tongue wagging freely, and the depression 
which had threatened to overwhelm him was forgotten 
for the time. The soldier encouraged him and in his rough 
way inspired the boy with faith in himself. 

"Don't you believe the world can lick yuh," he said. 
"It may git yuh down and blacken yer eyes, and maul 
yer up consid 'ble, but yuh must always come back Johnny 
on the spot with yer flukes up and yer head high. Don't 
yuh never tell nobody yer licked, even if yuh think it 
yerself. Life is somethin' like a battle, son, and the world 
is like the enemy. You git ready to hit it and lay yer 

[80] 



plans ter lick it, but they attack in a place and at a time 
when yer least lookin' fer it, and yer got to change the 
hull dern plan. 

"Over [here at Pea Eidge, fer instance, Gen'l Curtis 
expected the rebs to attack him by way of Keatsville, 
and had all his fortifications aimed that way. The rebs, 
not bein' considerate, however, came by way of the Ben- 
tonville road, an' hit the rear o' Curtis' army. Now, no- 
buddy but a genius could 'a' switched his hull dern army 
'round and pointed it 'tother way, and win. And do 
yer know what Gen'l Sigel did in that battle? That old 
Dutchman found himself with six hundred men and one 
battery nearly surrounded by Johnnies, who outnumbered 
him ten to one. It happened the road to Sugar Creek, 
where Curtis was, wound around among the hills and 
through dense woods. Sigel divided his force into two 
parts, each havin' half the battery. One half took its 
stand with its half of the battery at a bend in the road, 
with most of the men and the battery hid by the trees. 
The other half hustled jest as fast as their leg's 'd carry 
'em up the road a mile er so, and got the same kind o' 
place. The reb cavalry come runnin' their nags up the 
road, fully believein' they'd only ter put out their hands 
and nab the bunch. They had a s 'prise party when they 
come 'round that first bend, and the cannon and mus- 
kets opened on 'em. 0' course they stopped. Who 
wouldn't? And while they was guessin' at what hit 'em 
this first three hundred men grabbed their guns and fol- 
lered the cannons and cais'ns up the road past the second 
detachment, and a mile er so beyond, and then they'd 
halt and plant theirselves to wait till the other fellers 
hed got through takin' a swipe at the horse jockeys and 
hed got inter position behind 'em. Then they'd take their 
turn at shootin' and runnin'. Old Man Sigel would s'lect 
the place fer the plant, then he'd go down ter see how 
things was gettin' on at the scrap. Then he'd shove 'em 
up the road, stayin' till the last ter see that everythin' 
was done; go through and s'lect the place fer the next 
stand, and so on, back and forth, 'till he brung the hull 
e [81] 



dern bunch, by Josh, the hull ten miles an' reported for 
duty 's though nuthin ' had happened. The feller 't wrote 
'Forred, the Light Brigade,' what I hed to read when I 
was in school, didn't know 'bout Old Sigel er he might 
'a' added a verse 'bout him. 

"Howsumever, what I am gettin' at is that yer ain't 
alius licked when yer runnin'. If the world gets a swipe 
at ye, and yer go down, it don't alius wait fer the count 
but goes and stan's on the corner and brags 'bout what 
it's done to yuh. Take enough of the count tuh git yer 
breath, and then hunt fer the solar plexus again. Change 
front when yer think it advisable, run when it's needin' 
better ground to fight on yer are, and when they're stand- 
in' round tellin' how they licked ye they're the best meat 
fer yuh. Like a boa constrictor the world '11 sometimes 
gorge itself on the spoils o' yer labor, and then go to 
sleep. Let 'em hev the things they git away from yuh, 
and don't waste any time wailin' erbout 'em, er let any- 
buddy know yuh miss 'em, but swipe 'em in er place 
they ain't lookin' fer, and be ready to change front. If 
yuh kin find somethin' the world says can't be did, do it, 
fer the path with the least travel sometimes has the most 
good fruit. Curtis and Sigel at Pea Eidge didn't sit down 
and mourn, and surrender, because things didn't come as 
they planned. They took things as they was and ham- 
mered them into victory. Yuh may think the Old Man up 
there has his foot on yer chair, but He ain't. He'll not 
stack the cards on yuh, ner shift the cut, but yer '11 git 
a square deal all the time. He ain't ter blame for the 
crookedness in the world, and ef yuh git treated crooked, 
and ye've got the grit to keep on, and yer '11 keep clean 
and square yuh needn't be afraid God's goin' ter let yuh 
be licked." 

"I ain't afraid to work, suh, ef I kin git anythin' to 
do." 

"You needn't fear erbout that. Take the first job that 
comes ter hand that's honest. Make the most of it. Talk 
more about work than yuh do 'bout wages. Keep yer 
eyes open and see everything. Keep yer mouth shet 'cept 

[82] 



to ask questions. Don't give no advice ter the feller yer 
workin' fer 'less it's asked. Do yer work es he says it is 
tuh be did, even ef yuh think yer way's the best. Yuh 
kin experiment with yer own way when yer the boss an' 
hev to pay for it. Let the boss scold and splurge and 
spit cuss words ef he wants tuh, once in a while, and yuh 
keep yer mouth tight shet, 'less he reflects on yer char- 
acter. Jest think thet you'll be big enough ter lick him 
some day, and postpone the talkin' back till yuh kin lick 
him. By that time you'll feel sorry fer him, and like's 
not yuh '11 loan him money, and buy him somethin' t' eat. 
Yuh '11 hev to hoe yer own row, but ef yuh git in a pinch 
and need a friend call on me." 

"Yes, suh, thanky, suh. I'll be glad to have you-all 
as a friend, suh. But I want to make my own way." 

"And I want yuh ter do it, son. Any place what yer 
git in this life what yer don't earn ain't worth much 
either to them what gives or them what gits. Yer depend 
on yerself, and though yer '11 get some hard jolts yuh '11 
find a place yuh fit in. Ef yer a square peg it'd bruise 
yuh some ter get yuh in a round hole, and vicy versy, as 
old 'Squire Lathrop used to say. You may not find the 
place in life yuh belong in for a long, long time, but yuh 
keep goin'. Any road yuh take leads to success, if yer 
doin' the best yer know how, knowin' all yuh kin l'arn, 
ain't lookin' fer no admirin' procession and ain't won- 
derin' all the time how much money there is in it. A 
man nearly always loses who is continually sizin' up the 
pot and comin' in without lookin' at his hand. Yuh got 
to use some jedgment in life, and yer own jedgment on 
what yuh kin do er can't do is better than the other fel- 
ler's, 'cause if yuh got common sense and f oiler yer own 
jedgment and fall down yuh '11 wonder why and study a 
way ter make a killin' the next time. But ef ye've taken 
the other feller's jedgment and missed fire yuh '11 charge 
it up ter the ammunition, 'stead o' layin' it ter yer own 
ignorance of how to load the gun. Don't yuh be afraid 
of nobody. AVhen yuh see people worshippin' some man 
as though God had specially created him, and he treats 

[83] 



people as though God made them fer his special benefit, 
take a second er a third er a fourth look, and yuh'll see 
he's cut hisself when he shaved, er his necktie ain't on 
right, er he eats with his knife, er does somethin' what 
shows he ain't nuthin' but human. Then, don't worship 
him. But if he's right, admire him; if he's wrong, pass 
him by. Don't try to copy nobody. An imitation ain't 
worth much. Be yerself, boy, and then folks '11 say: 
'There comes Clarke and a bunch of fellers.' If yer copy- 
in', jest imitatin', nobody never sees yer come er knows 
yer gone." 

"Yes, suh," said Bascom. 

"Well, by Josh, yuh know I got to runnin' along tell 
I mighty near was preachin'. Anyhow, I like to talk to 
yuh, son. Yuh couldn't be a better feller tuh listen ef 
yuh was paid fer it. I wasn't thinkin' how young yuh 
was, but I b'lieve at that yuh understand what I was 
drivin' at, didn't yuh?" 

"Yes, suh. My grandmother told it to me, suh. She 
said it was all in that verse, 'Fear not, — foh ye shall reap 
if you faint not.' " 

"By Josh, yuh've hit it exact. Shake, son. I'm short 
on Bible an' long on* sperience. You're long on Bible 
and short on 'sperience. May we both get more of what 
we're lackin'." 

The boy looked up into the kindly, grizzled face, and 
instinctively knew he had a friend. The pressure of that 
handclasp braced the boy to two resolutions : To be for- 
ever four-square to the world and to merit true friends. 

The costly results of the war were brought to the at- 
tention of the refugees by a stack of coffins on the for- 
ward deck of the Kenton. They contained the remains of 
officers who had been killed in the trans-Mississippi cam- 
paigns, and whose bodies were being sent home for burial. 
It was a grewsome sight at best, while to the negroes and 
some of the superstitious whites it proved a serious in- 
terference with peace of mind. 

[84] 



"War may be all right," said Stone to Bascom, one 
day, as he found the boy contemplating the pile of cof- 
fins, "but the fellers who bring on the trouble are not 
usually the ones who reach an untimely end and go 
home to their friends in a box. Yuh may be fightin' for 
principle, and be as brave as yuh can, but it hurts here 
[pointing to his heart] when yuh miss yer bunkmate after 
a scrimmage and go huntin' fer him, only to find his life- 
less body. No money can pay fer a widow's tears or a 
orphan's sobs fer the man that don't come back. I'm 
goin' home, but I've got to tell Mrs. Sheifield 'bout Tom, 
and I've got to go and see old Mrs. Williams and put my 
arms around her neck and break the news of her only 
son's death. She held me on her lap when I was a baby, 
and she's "Aunty" Williams tuh the hull town. I'd 
ruther go back and fight some more than do it, but it's 
got to be did. Some day they'll come to believe that jest 
killin' each other don't settle nothin'. If I hev a differ- 
ence with my neighbor they make me go to court and get 
it fixed accordin' to law, but a nation won't take the kind 
of medicine it prescribes fer its people, and sets men to 
commit murder on one another to prove who's right and 
who's wrong. I ain't a blamin' nobuddy special, but I 
can't see why the commandment, 'Thou shalt not kill,' 
ain't jest as much Bible talk fer a nation as 'tis fer a 
man. Killin' has got ter be so common thet a stack of 
filled coffins like that don't cause no more talk than a pile 
o' cordwood. And they've had so many funerals that the 
tear-water o' the nation's nearly run dry. I can't help 
feelin' sorry for the Johnnies. They're fightin' on their 
own sile, but they ain't got enough to eat even at that. 
The fellers what stirred up the muss ain't carryin' the 
muskets and fillin' the graves — they're mostly doin' their 
fightin' with their mouths, and keepin' their eyes on the 
offices they're goin' ter hev when they win. And the fel- 
lers in the ranks will go home, those o' them what's per- 
mitted by Divine Providence ter git home, and they'll 
go to the polls and proudly cast their wad o' paper fer 
the mouth patriots. 

[85] 



"What've the poor devils of privates in the south got 
at stake in the hull dern percedin', anyway? They ain't 
got no slaves, and they don't own no big plantations. If 
they sh'd win they'd have less chance than they did be- 
fore, 'cause the planters 'd be like a lot o' little kings 
and these fellers what make the common soldiers 'd be 
jest as poor as they was before, and no way ter git up. 
If we win and slavery is did away with they'll start on 
an even footin' with everybuddy else, and if they wan ter 
be somebuddy and hev their children somebuddies they 
stand a show. Yer see, if we win they'll all be poor, 
everybuddy, and bein' poor together '11 bring 'em closer 
ter one enuther. I ain't got no bitter feelin's again 'em. 
It's like defendin' yerself agin a boy that's got stirred 
up by the older fellers eggin' him on to fight yer. He 
ain't got no grudge again yuh, and he ain't goin' ter git 
nuthin' if he licks yuh. Yuh hev to fight in self defense, 
but yuh feel sorry fer the kid and when it's over and yer 
lick him if yuh treat him right yuh kin make him yer 
closest friend. 'Twill take him a little time to find out 
that the fellers what egged him on wasn't doin' nuthin' 
fer him, and maybe he'll sometime sleep under the same 
blanket with yer and help yer lick somebuddy else. If 
Old Glory wins I'll bet yer anythin' these same fellers 
what's fit fer the South in this war will f oiler her all the 
rest o' their days, and be jest as proud o' her as we are 
now. And sometime they'll come to know that Abe Lin- 
coln's their best friend today. But the dern politicians 
kick up such a dust that a good man's goodness is hid till 
he's dead, if he happens to get elected to some place some- 
buddy else wanted. I was fer Stephen A. Douglas fer 
president, I was, and I'm proud o' the way he's stood up 
ter be counted fer the Union since. He didn't go home 
and sulk when Lincoln beat him, but went right over and 
took his place 'side Old Abe, and said: 'Here am I, Old 
Man, ready to help.' Takes a man ter do that, sonny." 
"My father was foh Stephen A. Douglas, sun." 
' ' Well, by Josh ! I thought there was some reason why 
I tuck tuh yer. Now I know what 'tis. Well, if yer 

[86] 



father was fer Stephen A. Douglas and Stephen A. Doug- 
las is fer Abe Lincoln and the stars and stripes yuh ain't 
got fur to go yerself to git on our side o' this difficulty. 
And I ain't goin' ter influence yer in the least. Jest be- 
cause we're takin' yer up north where yer '11 be safe don't 
make the right er wrong o' the perceedin'. Yer old 
enough ter obsarve and think fer yerself and tain't no 
time to criticise the political opinions of a man when 
he's yer guest. With yer gran 'father in the War o' 
Twelve and yer father votin' fer Douglas and yer own 
self pertected by the flag of the United States I'll take 
my chances on yer blood bein' right. I can't say I blame 
a man for follerin' his state, and I s'pose a slave state 
'd be broke in two if she didn't jine the reb side. Poor 
Maryland! She's a slave state and she's in the Union, 
so she loses either way the war goes." 

And so Stone talked to the boy all the long days of the 
journey, counseling and advising him, and with his homely 
philosophy preparing the mind of the boy for the strug- 
gle for existence and advancement. Bascom came to' see 
the possibility of rising from poverty and humbleness to 
a place of usefulness in the world. He had plenty of time 
to think, and he laid a mental foundation of industry and 
perseverance. 

The boat touched at Memphis. He beheld this South- 
ern gateway in the hands of the Federal troops. Its for- 
tifications held the cannon of the Yankees and the gun- 
boats lay in the river at her feet ready for action. From 
the staff of the court house the Union flag floated, and 
soldiers were everywhere. At this point the refugees 
were transferred to another transport, together with the 
bodies of the soldier dead, and again convoyed by tin- 
clads made their way up the river to Cairo, Illinois, the 
western base of supplies of the United States. 

To the wondering eyes of the refugees, who little com- 
prehended the magnitude of the contest, Cairo was a 
marvel. Seated upon its hills at the confluence of the 
Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, with its fortifications brist- 
ling with cannon, it presented an extremely imposing ap- 

[87] 



pearance. River craft of all descriptions, gunboats, trans- 
ports, big passenger steamers, and a motley collection of 
smaller boats were lying at the landings or running to 
and fro and up and down. Hurrying trucks were carry- 
ing stores from the great warehouses to the waiting lower 
decks of the vessels for shipment to the battling hordes in 
the south. Soldiers were filing on board the transports 
for conveyance to the front to take their part in the great 
struggle. Horses for the officers and the cavalry crossed 
the gang planks. Cannon and caissons for the batteries 
rumbled grimly along the dock and into places on the 
boats, and it seemed as if they were anxiously waiting 
the time to thunder destruction. Mortars tilted their 
wide-gaping mouths skyward as they were hauled on 
board and seemed to give a savage grimace as they dis- 
appeared from view. Huge boxes of ammunition of all 
kinds, together with small arms of every description and 
a miscellanous assortment of camp equipment were piled 
high on the transports. Altogether it was a continuous 
panorama of bustle and excitement. 

The landing of the refugees and the soldiers, and the 
transfer of the great pile of coffins to the landing, was 
scarcely noticed, although to both classes of the living 
it was a momentous occasion. The soldiers were going 
home to take up again the usual avocations of life and 
contend with the world for a place, back where they were 
known; the non-combatants were going into an unknown 
land, most of them in wretched poverty, and were won- 
dering what the future held in store for them. Cheered, 
however, by the loyal declarations of hospitality made by 
the returning soldiers, the refugees felt that in these men, 
at least, they had friends who would stand sponser for 
them until they could get a foothold among the strangers. 

It was a proud time for Old Man Smith. He had the 
transportation and subsistence order for twenty. With 
great dignity he headed the procession and ordered its 
" downsittings and uprisings." So fearful were most of 
them of losing him and thus being without the proper cre- 
dentials that they stuck closer than children around the 

[88] 



"'lasses candy wagon" at the county fair. What few 
personal belongings they had they carried around with 
them wherever they moved, hence the sight presented by 
them, while interesting, was not especially calculated to 
inspire admiring comments. For ten days they had been 
crowded together on the transports, the decks of which 
had evidently not been cleaned since the war began. 

Ragged, dirty and forlorn indeed they were, and cov- 
ered with vermin with which the transports were infested. 
There had been no opportunity to properly care for them- 
selves. They were dejected and homesick, though they 
realized they were homeless. Bascom, with his two gar- 
ments and old brimless army cap, was as well equipped 
so far as raiment was concerned as any of the others. 
Some of the people at least were from the upper walks 
of life and felt their present pitiable condition. They 
sought to keep away from the gaze of the populace. But 
the residents of Cairo had evidently had their curiosity 
satiated by similar delegations and there was neither ridi- 
cule nor rudeness on their part during the short time the 
refugees were in the city. 

Young Clarke and the Smith boys had managed to get 
out of sight for a time and had regaled themselves with 
a swim in the Ohio, and narrowly escaped a thrashing at 
the hands of the self-constituted leader of the expedition 
for being "absent without leave." But he was too busily 
engaged in "bossing" his flock at the time, and later it 
escaped his memory. The boys, refreshed and clean, 
would not have begrudged a few whacks just to have had 
the opportunity to sport in the water. While disrobed 
Bascom had taken the time to go over his shirt and trou- 
sers and rid them as best he could of the clinging vermin. 
Naturally cleanly and with a training that led him to 
look upon such a condition as a disgrace, he scrubbed, 
scoured and picked until he was comparatively free from 
the repulsive parasites. Jim Stone, who had come across 
him while thus engaged, sagely remarked : 

"If I hadn't aknowed yer story, son, I'd aknowed yer 
was brung up right by yer anxiety to chase graybacks. 

[89] 



Those fellers '11 make a chap show his ancestry and imme- 
jit fambly quicker 'n anythin' else in the world. If a 
feller come up to me and I really and truly wanted to 
know whether all the airs he was puttin' on was genooine 
er not I'd sick a grayback on him. If he didn't color up 
and look ashamed, and hunt for a quiet place where he 
could retire fr'm public gaze fer a time, I'd know he was 
a sham. Yer'll find er lot o' human vermin adurin' yer 
life and the human grayback 's some schemer. Yer got 
ter keep huntin', same's yer mother used to go through 
yer hair with a fine tooth comb erbout once in so often. 
Sometimes yer'll git in er place where ye can't help bein' 
bit by 'em, like you've been on those transports. No 
matter how clean yer was kept yer mother used to ex- 
amine every pull of the fine tooth comb, and maybe some- 
times, not orfen, yer'd see her stop, look close, and ye'd 
hear a little 'crack' like that. She'd say: 'My! My!' 
and then she'd pretty near dig yer scalp orf. Ever been 
there? Yes, I thought so. "Well, sonny, jest remember: 
The dirtier yer think, act er talk the more o' the human 
graybacks yer'll hev erbout ye. If yer think right, talk 
right and act right they won 't hurt ye much, though once 
in erwhile they'll git er whack at yer even then. I got 
more respect fer a 'squito then I has fer the grayback, 
human er otherwise. The 'squito sings yer a little song 
and tells yer he's comin' ter live off yer, and if yer don't 
want him yer'll whack at him, and he'll go 'way cussin' 
in a high key. But a grayback waits till yer ain't alookin', 
then he finds a little dirt in yer life thet ye've overlooked, 
and perceeds ter make himself ter hum. If yer don't oust 
him quick he'll wig-wag ter all the rest o' the tribe, and 
before yer know it 'twill take a thunderin' lot of cleanin' 
ter red yerself of 'em. 'Tain't no disgrace ter have a 
human grayback light on yer and snuggle up ter yuh, 
but it's a sign yer wrong if he finds the quarters com- 
f 'table. Yuh ain't got no easy time ahead o' yuh, boy, 
and yer got ter watch out er the graybacks '11 get yuh. 
But yuh jest think all'er time about how yer mother and 
father and grandmother 'd hev yer do, and yer'll come 
through O.K." 

[90] 




ETSTANT HOU^E, ON NOBLB PAfcl^ 



CHAPTER XI. 

Three miles southwest of Indianapolis, on the Madison 
pike running alongside the J. M. & I. branch of the Penn- 
sylvania railroad, is a beautiful place containing several 
hundred acres. This was the home of Lazarus Noble, a 
good man. This is all the description necessary to bring 
to mind the qualifications he possessed. He belonged to 
the class of genuine people, whose influence is far- 
reaching, and who, without ostentation, move the world 
up toward better conditions. Well fitted to be his help- 
meet was his wife, Harriet. Her sweet, tender, sympa- 
thetic nature made the complement to her husband's gen- 
erous impulses, and together they lightened more than one 
burdened soul and smoothed pathways that otherwise 
would have been too rough and hard for w T eary feet. 
Anything in the line of human suffering appealed directly 
to them both, and they knew no rest until so far as they 
were able the suffering was alleviated. 

Mr. Noble was a strong supporter of the Union at a time 
when strong, courageous men were needed to stem the 
tide of disloyalty which cropped out here and there in 
Indiana. Notwithstanding the strict loyalty of the state 
to the Federal government, there was an undercurrent of 
sympathy with those who were fighting against its integ- 
rity. And here, as well as elswhere, were those who, by 
every device or process known to their poisoned minds, 
were giving aid and comfort to the enemies of their coun- 
try while too cowardly to go south and join those who 
were making an honest fight in the open in support of 
principles which they believed to be right. Men like Laz- 
arus Noble, whose firm, unflinching patriotism held like 
a rock when there was a tendency on the part of any of 
the community to drift away from absolute, unques- 
tioned and unquestioning loyalty, such men shaped the 

[91] 



sentiment and kept the great state true to the line of de- 
votion to the Union. 

His broad vision swept beyond the carpings of the 
critics who mistook their biting words of sarcasm, in dis- 
cussing the conduct of the war, for weighty analyses of 
the situation. He saw the great problems to be solved, 
the necessity for a giant hand and heavy blows to forge 
again the broken fragments of the republic into a co- 
hesive whole. The Titian task and its means of accom- 
plishment were too large for the little minds to compre- 
hend. And the little minds, it was, that set their tongues 
wagging and their hands writing those things which in- 
fluenced other little minds and stayed a more speedy end 
to the conflict. Hence, it was well that such sturdy men 
as Lazarus Noble lived. Sober reasoning and calm judg- 
ment negatived the effect of the mouthings of the froth- 
spewers, and the state held fast. 

When it became known that a band of refugees, forced 
from their homes by reason of their allegiance to the 
Union, had landed in Indianapolis and needed help, the 
Noble family was among the first to offer assistance. It 
was corn-cutting time and help was scarce, so thoroughly 
had the war drained the country of able-bodied men. Near 
the Noble mansion and on a part of the estate was a 
frame dwelling house. At the instance of Mr. Noble, 
three families, including Smith and his retinue, went to 
live in this tenant house, while all in the party who could 
wield corn-cutters went into the fields to work. Bascom 
was among the number. While not presuming to vacate 
his assumed position as overseer of the party Old Man 
Smith himself worked with the rest. So long had they 
been confined on the transports and trains that they all 
welcomed activity. 

The jug of water, which had been taken to the field, 
having been exhausted, Bascom was sent to the big brick 
house to replenish it. While he was drawing the water, 
Mrs. Noble came out to him. She could not help smiling 
at the nondescript figure he cut in his ragged homespun 
trousers held up by tow-string suspenders, and his peak- 

[92] 






less soldier cap. But his apparent destitution appealed 
to her sympathetic heart. He did not see her at first, but 
when she spoke he stopped short, turned around and in- 
stantly grabbed off his cap with an inborn courtesy that 
touched her with its genuineness. 

"How are your folks getting along, my boy?" she 
asked. 

"I ain't got any folks heah, ma'am," he answered. 

Surprised, she said : 

"Why, aren't these Smiths your folks? You came with 
them, didn't you?" 

"I'm with 'em, ma'am, but I'm not of 'em. I'm a 
Clarke, ma'am." 

"But where are your father and mother, boy?" 

"Both of 'em air dead, ma'am." 

The eyes of the good woman filled with tears as she 
drew from the lad his personal history, and he told of the 
sisters back in Arkansas who didn't know where he was, 
of the happy home now broken and the poverty which 
had come to be his lot. Her heart warmed to him. She 
said: 

"Dear me ! You've certainly had your share of trouble 
for the short span of your life. Let us hope there are 
better days ahead." 

She laid her hand on his tousled head and drew him 
to her, telling about her own boys, now south fighting for 
the Union, and how proud she was of them. She told him 
how glad she was that she could do something to help him. 

"But my folks is Southe'ne'hs, and my brother is in 
the Confederate army now, fightin' you-all," said Bas- 
com, as if he had no right even to the kindness of Mrs. 
Noble, and especially if her boys were fighting on the 
other side. 

"What difference does that make? To me you aren't 
a Southerner or a Northerner, but just a poor little lone- 
some boy and I'm going to do by you as I know your 
angel mother would have done by my boys if the posi- 
tions were reversed. Come with me." 

He went with her into the big house. There she took 

[93] 



him in the kitchen, and scrubbed him until he shone in his 
freshness. Then she rigged him out in a suit of clothes 
belonging to one of her own boys, gave him a big slice 
of hot mince pie, filled his jug with water and sent him 
back to the field. 

Smith saw him coming and started toward him, evi- 
dently with the intention of punishing him for being gone 
so long, but he stopped short and stared in amazement 
as he beheld the transformation from the ragged, dis- 
consolate boy who left the field to the bright, clean, well 
clothed youngster who returned. 

"Whah'd you-all git them close?" he demanded. 

"The lady at the big house give 'em to me," answered 
Bascom. 

There was an instant's pause during which the boy 
waited for the usual pounding which Smith seemed to 
rejoice in giving him. But to his surprise the old man 
gave a grunt which might be interpreted to mean any- 
thing, grabbed the jug and turned back to his work. He 
was cunning enough to know that if the boy had found 
favor at the big house anything which might be done to 
him would probably militate against Smith himself in 
his relation to the Nobles. 

This little touch of human kindness, at a time when the 
world was dark and the way uncertain, was just the thing 
needed to make him forget his environment, rise above it 
in spirit, and determine to merit the friendship of this 
good woman. She did not realize it until he told her of 
it long afterwards, but she did as much by this one act 
to inspire him with courage and patience to meet the 
future as was done by any person in the world. He felt 
that as yet he was helpless in the hands of the Smiths 
and he submitted to the beatings and harsh words of the 
old man because he didn't know where to go if he left. 
He was afraid that wherever he did go Smith would fol- 
low, claim him and make his life even more intolerable 
than it was before. He tried to bear it all with fortitude, 
and seemed to grow stronger both mentally and physi- 
cally, despite the handicap of his surroundings. 

[94] 



There was plenty of work, and the Smith family went 
from one job to another, the recompense for all labor 
going into the pockets of the old man. While he had 
come north as a Union refugee, he had not been long in 
his new home before his tongue ran a little too freely, 
and left room for suspicion that his sympathies and hopes 
were with the south. This suspicion grew apace, and 
was fed by his indiscreet and boastful utterances. 

The kindness of the Yankees to Bascom seemed to give 
him especial cause for brutality. At one time he took 
hickory withes, roasted them over a fire to toughen them, 
and flogged him with them until the boy's back was cov- 
ered with great welts. This came to the ears of some of 
the neighbors and they positively declared to Smith 
through a delegation sent for that purpose that any fur- 
ther acts of that kind on his part would result in imme- 
diate and summary punishment at the hands of the men 
in the neighborhood. Though his tongue continued its 
lashings, that was the last time he laid hands on the child 
while in that neighborhood. 

Disloyal to his own people in the South, he now demon- 
strated his disloyalty to the people who had befriended 
him. He moved from one community to another in order 
to escape the just results of his words and deeds. His 
family, who had lived in almost constant fear of his 
violent temper, and who shared their home with Bascom, 
came to give the boy their friendship, and sympathize 
with him in their way, though scarcely daring to manifest 
any unusual interest in him for fear of the consequences 
to themselves. The oldest girl, who was the housekeeper, 
did what she could to make the life bearable. The chil- 
dren imbibed the spirit of the times, and were not inter- 
ested to any great degree in the war or its problems, 
They were anxious about the quantity of provisions which 
might come their way. 

They had no philosophy of life and were fired by no 
great ambitions. They belonged to the class of people 
who were satisfied and contented if the fates decreed that 
they should have enough to eat, something to wear and a 

[95] 



place to stay. Whether or not they had ever heard of 
the scriptural injunction, "Take no thought of the mor- 
row," they obeyed it to the letter. Their life in Arkansas 
had been spent largely in the open, and so, outside of 
dodging the blows of the father, or keeping out of his 
way as long as possible when he manifested a disposition 
to use the rod of discipline, they were care-free and with- 
out sense of responsibility. 

Bascom began to thirst for an education, for a greater 
knowledge than his situation was liable to yield him. Out- 
side of what his good grandmother had taught him and 
the few weeks in the private school which were inter- 
rupted by the coming of the war, he had had no oppor- 
tunity to study. He read everything he could and ab- 
sorbed the word and thought, but had no one to direct 
his energies along the line of systematic training. He 
seemed hedged in by an environment from which he was 
too young to break forth. Oftimes he was discouraged 
and tempted to drift with the rest, but the early lessons 
of industry and determination would assert themselves, 
and he highly resolved to conquer and "remember that 
he was a Clarke," born to hold a higher place in life 
than a drifter with the stream. 

In "corn-shucking" time he learned to deftly slip the 
golden ear from its envelope by the aid of a hickory peg. 
There came to him visions of the ebony and ivory pegs 
described by the soldier friend, but he soon realized that 
this was a fairy story concocted for his entertainment, 
and laughed to himself. But he was an expert with the 
little instrument and, though his fingers were stiffened by 
the frosty atmosphere at times, he kept pace with the 
older ones in the task. Then, too, he was to go to school 
that winter, and the thought of it made him happy, for 
he would have a chance to learn something and equip 
himself for a bright future. Notwithstanding his depriva- 
tions and the hardships of his life under the domineering, 
tyrannical Smith, he never lost his courage or his ambi- 
tion. Smith had promised that the children should go to 
school during the winter. Illiterate himself, he was al- 

[96] 



ways going to educate his family. Clarke little realized 
that the children were used to this promise and its oft- 
repeated breaking. He took the old man at his word, 
and anticipated the winter at school with great joy. 

When school was ''took up" in the little red school- 
house near the Noble farm, a delegation from the Smith 
household was on hand. The children were armed with 
an assortment of school books, evidently bought cheap at 
some secondhand store, or begged from the discard of old 
educational books in people's houses round about. Bas- 
com drew a copy of Fox's Arithmetic, so old that it was 
unknown in Indiana, and an old bluebook speller of an 
obsolete brand. With these books and five sheets of 
foolscap paper he marched proudly to the schoolhouse to 
begin work when the term opened. The teacher looked 
at the relics of long-gone generations in the school and 
indited a polite note to the head of the Smiths, containing 
a list of the books necessary for each. This was carried 
home by one of the older children. 

Upon being made aware of its contents, the old man 
went into a rage and started immediately for the house 
of the school director living near. Here he exploded a 
torpedo or two of expletives intended to convince the 
man of the greatness of Smith, and his right to have his 
children educated with whatever books he desired to 
equip them. The director patiently tried to explain to 
his visitor the necessity of having uniform text-books, 
but Smith scarcely listened, and, his importance not being 
conceded, stalked home and took his children out of 
school as a punishment to the community. The commu- 
nity survived the shock but the Smith family once more 
saw the winter pass without an opportunity to go to 
school. 

To Clarke this was a keen disappointment, for now 
that this door of knowledge was closed to him he saw no 
other opened and thus the way to an education seemed 
barred to him. With no help he took his odd times and 
tried to master the intricacies of the Fox's arithmetic, 
and worked at the words in the old speller until he could 
I :? [97] 



nearly spell them backwards, but it was uphill work and 
he had no encouragement. Besides, the physical labor 
demanded of him by Smith was such as to make him too 
weary to spend much time with his books. More than 
once he fell asleep with his head in the arithmetic or 
speller, as, in the evening, after a hard day's work, he 
tried to study. 

Smith had taken a contract to cut cordwood for Mr. 
Noble, so when the fiasco of sending the family to school 
was over he turned the boys loose in the woods at this 
work. Thus, Bascom, instead of getting an education or 
a start in that direction, spent the winter pulling one end 
of a cross-cut saw, cutting logs into four-foot lengths and 
swinging a "nigger maul" splitting them into proper size. 

If discipline to meet discouragements, rebuffs and ap- 
parent insurmountable barriers were what was needed to 
develop his physical and moral strength he was certainly 
getting all that was necessary. A less determined nature 
would have concluded that the tide of misfortune was 
too strong to be stemmed and might have given up. On 
the contrary, the more adversity sought to stifle his am- 
bitions the more his buoyant nature asserted itself. No 
Clarke should be crushed by either poverty or oppression. 
So he endured, worked, suffered and waited. 

As the cold weather approached the question of shoes 
for the barefooted orphan began to assert itself. He had 
no money, and there seemed little prospect of obtaining 
any, as the waiting hand of his self-appointed guardian 
was always interposed between the boy's labor and the 
wages received therefor. 

While in Indianapolis one day, when the frosty at- 
mosphere bit his toes, he determined to pledge his own 
credit for leather enough to make him a pair of shoes. 
Going into the place of business of Joseph K. Sharpe, he 
sought out the proprietor. 

"Will yuh trust me foh leather enough foh a pair of 
shoes, suh?" he asked. 

Sharpe looked him over for a full minute, but the boy 
stood the scrutiny unflinchingly. 

[98] 



"Haven't you any money, boy?" he asked. 

"No, sun." 

Then followed a series of questions which brought out 
the story of the events which led up to his plight. The 
heart of the man was touched. 

"I'll give you the leather, son." 

"If you please, suh, I don't want it thataway. I'll pay 
foh it ef you'll trust me." 

"I like that spirit, son, and you can have the leather 
and pay me when you can. I'd gladly give it to you, 
but your independence shall be respected. To whom shall 
I charge it?" 

"To Bascom B. Clarke, suh." 

The leather was given him and the charge gravely 
made on the book. Soon he was the proud possessor of 
a pair of shoes against the coming of winter. The debt 
was afterwards paid, though it meant much sacrifice and 
self-denial on the part of the lad. 

By the spring of 1865 Smith found things so warm for 
him in the Noble neighborhood that he concluded it 
was time to move. His treatment of the little orphan 
boy in his custody and his anti-Union talk had made him 
exceedingly unpopular. He thought it was best to leave 
for new fields before the threats of violence which were 
freely made were put into effect. Conscious of having 
been ungrateful to the people who had befriended him, 
and to the government which had rescued him from prob- 
able death, he concluded that just at that juncture a 
change of scene to where he was not known would be 
preferable. 

So, with the family and young Clarke, not forgetting 
the hound dog, "Bull," a most important adjunct of the 
house, he migrated. The atmosphere of Clark's Hill, 
where he first stopped, not proving to his liking, he again 
pulled up stakes and lighted on a small farm a few miles 
from Colfax, on the banks of Potato Creek. Here the 
treatment of Bascom became so notoriously brutal that 
his emancipation was accomplished through the efforts 
of the indignant people of the neighborhood, led by Oap- 

[99] 



tain Milton B. Waugh. Captain Waugh was the head of 
the "Home Guards, " and a braver, truer man never lived. 
It was here, at last, that the boy found the leashes un- 
loosed, and, freed from the rule of Smith, found the door 
of hope open. 



[MO] 



tt — 

re 






- 



_____ 



CHAPTER XII. 

Captain Waugh had been a boy himself and understood 
them, while his good wife, country born and bred, with 
the freedom of action which such a life gives, was just 
the woman to influence the life of the youngster who 
thus had been placed by the Almighty in their hands. 
Notwithstanding the fact that the Captain was allied with 
that devoted band of men who were holding the line of 
loyalty at home and counteracting the influence of the 
Knights of the Golden Circle, or "Copperheads," who 
were lending aid to the South in every way possible, and 
notwithstanding the bitterness of the times, Captain 
Waugh took the little Southern boy into his home and 
never by word or look attempted to proselyte the lad from 
fidelity to his land and his people. It was impossible, 
however, that the refugee should not hear the discussion 
of the causes and conditions of the war and its progress, 
and the probable results. 

He had heard the Yankees cursed and reviled as cruel 
monsters who would grind the heads of the Southerners 
into atoms if they could, and yet here he was being fed, 
clothed and cared for by one whose heart was wrapped 
up in the cause of the Union. He was not despised and 
kicked and cuffed about, but sat at the same board and 
was made one of the family. Mrs. Waugh mothered 
him and with considerate kindness made up to him in a 
large degree for the hardness of the past. His worn and 
frayed garments were thrown away and a new suit of 
"store clothes" were bought for him. And with the old 
clothes went the last of his old life. Instead of repres- 
sion and oppression there came the opportunity to par- 
ticipate in the doings of the community and to give ex- 
pression to those things which dominate a boy's mind. 

It took him a little while to find that the shackles of 

[101] 



Smith's bondage were no longer upon him, but the real- 
ization asserted itself finally and he had two years of 
boyhood on the farm. To be sure, he worked hard, for 
that was the life of a farmer boy in those days. Called 
at four or five o'clock in the morning, while the stars were 
yet shining, he fed, curried and harnessed his team, threw 
the feed to the hogs and then was ready to answer the 
breakfast bell: not the electric buzzer attached to the 
dining-room table, but the big farm bell mounted on the 
milk-house. To this add the milking of two or three 
cows, the getting of the wood for the household, and the 
mending of machinery and harnesses, and you have the 
' ' chores ' ' of every morning and evening. It meant a long 
day which seldom ended before dark. Yet, with it all 
came a feeling of independence, a knowledge of ability 
to do, which were to stand him in good stead in the years 
to come. 

He became one of the boys of the neighborhood, and a 
favorite among the other lads, a leader in many ways, 
especially in mischief. He had an inborn sense of honor 
and integrity and his trustworthiness was demonstrated 
on more than one occasion. Probably nothing that the 
good Captain and his wife could have done would have 
so developed and broadened his life as the implicit trust 
they reposed in him. There was never the least sugges- 
tion that they did not absolutely believe in his integrity 
and truthfulness. From their treatment of him no one 
could have judged that he was not their own boy. Yet 
the older people of the neighborhood, knowing his com- 
ing into their midst as a waif, and unconsciously mark- 
ing him as one who had no history or ancestry, sometimes 
shook their heads at the possibility of his ever amounting 
to anything. 

Mrs. Waugh insisted that he have the privileges of the 
school during the winter months while he was with them, 
and the little schoolhouse over by Bethel church now 
called him, provided, however, with the books required. 
He made the most of his time there during the two win- 
ers he was at the "Waugh farm. But at best he could only 

[102J 



obtain the most rudimentary familiarity with learning 
in so short a time. 

An oyster supper at Captain TVaugh's one winter's even- 
ing had as much to do with the future of Bascom as any 
other one thing, though at the time he did not realize it. 
These parties were great occasions. The young people 
came from far and near, and a night of merriment was 
sure to result. The old fashioned country games were 
played. It was Clarke's first experience at an entertain- 
ment of this kind, and he had not yet become sufficiently 
acquainted in the community to particpate. So he sat 
watching the proceedings with wistful eyes, in them but 
not of them. Suddenly a new game was proposed, and 
the girls were given the choice of partners. 

Bascom had no thought except to be counted out on this, 
but to his surprise a vivacious miss who had been the 
life of the evening, and whose rollicking laughter was 
infectious, called out : 

"I want that little fellow over in the corner." 

She made a dive, and before he could recover from his 
astonishment he found his arm linked by her and he was 
on his feet taking his place. Did he wake up? He most 
certainly did. For the rest of the time he devoted him- 
self to her, and before the evening was over was ready 
to propose matrimony and start out in life with her. She 
came from a farm six miles away on the other side of 
Colfax, but the distance might have been as far as the 
moon and he would have made it. Yet he was destined 
not to go for a long, long time, notwithstanding he asked 
and received permission to come. If it was a case of love 
at first sight it was also a case where true love did not 
''run smooth." Just at the time agreed upon for the visit 
came the regulation villain. Clarke was told that after 
the little miss had gone home she had said she was only 
fooling with Bascom, that she would not have anything 
to do with him, and that if he came to see her he would 
not get in. 

Clarke never thought to question the truth of this. He 
was sensitive to a fault. Feeling the humbleness of his 

[103] 



situation and the fact that he came as a waif, he was too 
ready to believe that this was an exact statement of the 
situation. The boy had been buffeted about so much 
and had been denied so many things that he was ready 
to believe that so rich a thing as the regard of this splen- 
did girl, or even a thought of friendship, could not be his. 
So when the time came he did not go, and made up his 
mind to put her out of his thought and life. She had 
come with a young man belonging to one of the well-to-do 
families in the neighborhood and he knew that this young 
man was interested in her. And what was he? Nothing 
but a poverty-stricken farm hand with nothing ahead of 
him that any one could point out as promising sufficient 
to take care of a wife. 

So, though he did not go to see her, the realization of 
his position in life stirred his ambition until he deter- 
mined that no handicap should prevent him from mak- 
ing a success. He was a Clarke, and would come into his 
own if he did his best to measure up to the standard of 
industry and determination which ought ever to be the 
accompaniment of that name. He turned to his work, 
not content to drift, but looking for the chance to force 
an opening through a prospect of hopeless mediocrity into 
the promise of a successful life. And it is not to be de- 
nied that a fragment of hope remained that ultimately 
he might prove himself worthy and mayhap win his part- 
ner of the oyster supper. 

In the meantime no one knew of the heartache or 
wound to his sensitive nature and he worked and played, 
and never went half-way in either. The country boy 
pranks are as old as country life and it would have been 
difficult to find a farmer's boy of those days who had not 
made the night hideous with a charivari of a newly mar- 
ried couple or demonstrated his prowess in abstracting 
watermelons from a well-guarded patch. A marriage was 
a challenge to a noisy demonstration which ended under 
the code as soon as a treat was provided. A melon patch 
was planted with the thought that it was in danger of in- 
vasion. Woe be to the newly-weds who refused to sub- 

[104] 



scribe to the custom of the times, and life was a burden 
to him who let the notice go forth that his melons were 
beyond the reach of the boys. 

Both of these methods of entertainment were new to 
Bascom, but he was an apt scholar in mischief, and by his 
originality soon became a leader. To his credit be it said 
that there was no malicious destruction of property under 
his leadership. A melon patch, the product of which was 
free to the boys whenever they wanted it, was safe from 
intrusion. Every farmer had a patch and it was not nec- 
essary for any of the boys to raid one in order to get 
what they wanted to eat. The generosity of Captain 
Waugh with the melons he raised was so well known that 
no raid was ever made on his farm. Possibly the fact 
that one of the principal actors in the process of obtain- 
ing them unasked lived in his own house might have had 
something to do with his immunity. But it was well 
known to all the boys that they could have melons any 
time they wanted them with the full consent of the Cap- 
tain. He always insisted that he planted them for their 
benefit. 

It would scarcely be dignified, perhaps, but the biog- 
raphers of some of the great military geniuses of the 
United States might truthfully state that their first dis- 
play of military sagacity was as a boy in a melon patch. 
The campaign was planned as carefully as an attack upon 
the fortified rendezvous of the opposing army. And no 
two attacks were made in the same manner. Ingenuity 
of approach was essential to possible success. For in- 
stance, Uncle Bill Henderson "allowed" that if anybody 
came fooling around his melon patch there would be a 
liberal sprinkling of bird shot doled out as a welcome. 
lie built a shack thatched with straw right in the midst 
of the patch. With his dog to stand guard and give warn- 
ing of the approach of the enemy and an old muzzle- 
loading shotgun for weapon he slept every night in the 
shack. 

A council of war was held when the loudly proclaimed 
challenge went forth, and it was unanimously agreed to 

[105] 



accept. Wednesday night, after prayer meeting, was set 
for the attack. The details of the affair were left to Bas- 
com and he made a private reconnoissance to get firmly 
in his mind again the topography, location of the shack, 
best line of approach, and the safest avenue of departure. 

An hour after midnight, thirteen boys rode silently 
in single file to a point in the road opposite the patch. 
Five of them were then detailed to watch the horses. The 
remainder made a "slip-gap" in the rail fence by taking 
out the lower rail and one by one crawled through, Bas- 
eom in the lead. HE KNEW THE DOG. Here was the 
key to the entire situation. He had never abused a dumb 
creature in his life, and as a result, every dog and horse 
in the neighborhood was his especial friend. So Clarke 
slowly and carefully made his way at the head of the line 
to where he could attract the attention of the dog and 
disclose his identity without awakening his master. When 
this was finally accomplished a little petting assured the 
dog that all was right and a few melons were taken and 
passed down the line of prostrate boys and through the 
fence to the watchers. 

It was then decided that Uncle Bill would deny the 
visit if they departed without awakening him. So they 
Laid a train of straw quite a ways back from the shack up 
to the building and set fire to it. Then they made for 
their horses and raised a yell Bill mistook in his dreams 
for the battle cry of the Mississippi Tigers, which he had 
so often heard while south with the 72d Indiana cavalry. 
He roused from his slumbers, heard the crackle of flames, 
jumped to his feet and realized that his preciously 
guarded melons had been touched by profane hands. In 
an instant "bang-bang" went the shotgun, followed by 
a fusilade of bullets from the old revolver he had carried 
with him in the army. The boys, satisfied that he was 
awake, mounted their horses and were soon out of range. 

Uncle Bill was at the Waugh residence early the next 
morning, demanding with much profanity and vigor of 
speech that that "Smith" boy should be threshed within 
an inch of his life. 

[106] 



''He was at the head of that gang, and I know it," 
yelled Uncle Bill, unhitching a few profane expletives 
from his vocabulary and hurling them out. 

Captain Waugh only grinned and waited until the noise 
of the explosion subsided and then said quietly: 

"I don't see how you can lay it to our boys, Bill, when 
we've got better melons in our patch than you ever grew." 

So Uncle Bill departed uncomforted and unrelieved. 
As a reward to the Captain for his loyalty and in recog- 
nition of his generosity in this and other particulars the 
boys invited him to a feast of roast chicken in the sor- 
ghum house that night. After he had partaken and ex- 
pressed his satisfaction over the feed, Bascom piped up : 

"Mighty good chicken, ain't they, Captain?" 

"They sure are," responded the Captain. "I ain't 
goin' to ask where yuh got 'em, but yer some powerful on 
selection." 

"Yes, sir" continued Bascom, "we allowed we only 
wanted the best to feed you with and so we took them 
off your own roost to make sure." 

The Captain paused with a dripping "drumstick" half 
way to his mouth, looked sideways at the speaker for an 
instant, and then said: 

"Why, certainly, of course. I thought there was a 
familiar taste about 'em." 

The news of the raid on Uncle Bill Henderson spread 
rapidly, and those who guarded their patches redoubled 
their vigilance. The perpetrators led the suspicion as far 
as they could in the direction of the Coyner boys and Bill 
Bowers over on the prairie, whose escapades and depre- 
dations were somewhat notorious. 

Uncle Bill Powers had a fine patch of melons in the mid- 
dle of his cornfield. He loudly defied anyone to get at 
them without suffering personal injury. He was tan- 
talized with suggestions that the Coyners sure had an 
eye on the patch and would not let it pass. This caused 
him to adopt the extremest measures. Frank, the son, 
was placed on watch, armed with a squirrel rifle and a 
Colt's revolver which Powers was accused of having 

[107] 



bought when he joined the Knights of the Golden Circle. 
Frank was given orders by his father to shoot and shoot 
to kill, and every one of the boys knew that he would obey. 

So the expedition against this patch assumed serious 
phases which ought to have caused the boys to hesitate 
if not to abandon the enterprise altogether. But it only 
called forth resort to another military strategy, namely, 
drawing the fire of the enemy and then rushing the works 
before a new supply of ammunition and reinforcements 
can be obtained. The night chosen was one when Long 
Jake Coyner and his gang were known to be in the neigh- 
borhood and likely to get the credit for the disturbance. 
"Old Shep," Uncle Bill's dog, was on watch with Frank, 
and under the tactics adopted this would make no differ- 
ence. It was determined that when the defending force 
retreated for ammunition and reinforcements sufficient 
time would be given to leave the evidence of the visit, 
and this was all that was desired. 

The orders were to lie flat on the ground in the corn 
until the shots were counted which indicated the expendi- 
ture of the last of the ammunition on hand in the garrison. 
There was but one shot in the squirrel rifle and five in the 
revolver. A careful survey of the situation by the com- 
mander-in-chief, the evening before, had determined that 
this was all. The squirrel rifle was a muzzle-loader, and 
the revolver contained powder and ball in each chamber, 
and was fired with percussion caps. So the process of 
reloading would be necessarily slow. Knowing these 
things the commander-in-chief reasoned that the garrison 
would go to the house for reinforcements rather than stop 
to reload his ancient apparatus. 

An armful of "dornicks" each was selected from the 
bottom of Potato Creek, and the attacking party wormed 
silently through the cornfield to a point near enough for 
their purpose. At a whispered order a shower of rocks 
was sent in to shell the camp and arouse the defender. 
Then the attacking party immediately laid flat between 
the corn rows. "Sping" went the squirrel rifle, imme- 
diately followed by the bang-bang-bang-bang-bang of the 

[108] 



revolver. "Old Shep" joined his voice to the general com- 
motion. When the six shots had been counted, with a 
yell and a storm of rocks the attacking party advanced 
upon the citadel. As anticipated, Frank fled to the house 
to arouse his father, while "Shep" was close at his heels. 
The seeds of a juicy melon were scattered over the shanty, 
each grabbed a melon and made for the timber, thence by 
a circuitous route home. 

At dinner the next day the raid on the Powers patch 
was under discussion. Young Clarke, with a well- 
assumed air of innocence, suggested that it might be well 
to guard their own patch against the possible incursion 
of the Coyner gang. 

Captain Waugh looked out of the corner of his eye, and 
sagely remarked : 

"And feed them roast chicken afterward!" 

That was all, but it was sufficient to indicate that he 
had guessed the real leader, at least, in the subjugation 
of Bill Powers' melon patch. 



[109] 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Bascom did not lack for religious teaching in his new 
home. If all the different beliefs, isms, sects and creeds 
had been a boiling flood and then hunted a suitable set- 
tling basin they could not have accomplished more than 
the community in the valley of Potato Creek showed. Old 
fashioned Methodists, Dunkards, Soul Sleepers, Spiritual- 
ists and a score or more of greater and lesser denomina- 
tions found lodgment there. "Goin' to meetin' " and 
Sunday school was as much a part of life as eating. Any- 
one who failed to attend some form of worship was im- 
mediately classed as one on the direct road to purgatory. 

Mayhap the adherents of each of the beliefs would criti- 
cise and belabor all the others as uncertain and outland- 
ish ways to glory, but towards them they were tolerant, 
although pitying them for their lack of comprehension 
which led them by so crooked a path to the Kingdom of 
Heaven. But they all pounced with one accord, as un- 
worthy confidence or recognition, upon that person who 
dared to assert disbelief in any of them. Bascom, being 
of an inquiring mind, though practically classed with the 
Methodists, was given to looking in upon the entire va- 
riety. To be sure, all except the Methodists were usually 
attended by him as a means of entertainment. 

A revival in old Bethel Methodist church was an espe- 
cial occasion for the assemblage of the community, and 
its success was measured by the number who were brought 
triumphant to the mourner's bench. For in those days 
they had a "mourner's bench," not a chancel. And if 
folks felt like shouting their praises at the top of their 
voices there was none to chide. It was noisy, demonstrat- 
ive religion, but it was religion. There could be no de- 
nying the sincerity or earnestness of the worshippers, or 
their anxiety to bring others into the fold. Christianity ! 
It bubbled up like a never-ending spring of pure water. 

[HO] 



Great, strong characters were these people. Take Aunt 
Sally Kendall as an example. She lived her religion every 
day, winter and summer. It seemed to be the very breath 
of her existence. She was Clarke's Sunday school teacher, 
and she worked and longed for him to be caught in the 
great tidal wave of religious enthusiasm which accompa- 
nied a revival. At these times when she was not praying 
or singing or telling her story of Jesus and His love she 
was chasing Bascom and his chums down the aisles, seek- 
ing to take them as unbranded mavericks on the range 
of religious hope up to where the minister could give 
them his seal as probationers. Though the spirit of mis- 
chief may have prompted him to dodge the good woman 
in her endeavors, yet she left her impress upon the lad so 
that he, already well grounded in religious thought and 
belief, came as near being a Methodist as he possibly 
could without being an affiliant of the church. It was she 
who stimulated him to learn the verses of the Bible, until 
he won the prize for repeating more than anyone else in 
the Sunday school. 

It was Aunt Sally who told the boys of their faults and 
sought by gentle, motherly sympathy to win them to cor- 
rect living. Aunt Sally, it was, who successfully pleaded 
for them with 'Squire Mitchell when they took some of 
his fence rails and blocked the highway. And again it 
was she who gave them their first lesson in tolerance. 
The Soul Sleepers had a baptism in Potato Creek. Every- 
body went that Sunday afternoon to witness the process. 
The boys, standing on the bridge above, kicked dirt down 
into the water, but the sharp eyes of Aunt Sally caught 
them at it and at her rebuke they immediately desisted. 

"Ye ain't got no call, boys, to mix dirt in another man's 
religion. They're entitled to the clean water God gives 
'em to wash in, if they wants to. An' if they wants to 
go in swimmin' in the name o' the Lord let 'em swim. 
It's the sperrit ye do things with that counts with God." 

Dear old Aunt Sally! She used to "walk with God," 
as she called it, when her hands were so crippled with 

[111] 



rheumatism that they were drawn out of shape, and 
surely it could be written of her: 

"This is the disciple which testifieth of these things, 
. . . and we know that his [her] testimony is true." 

Did not her influence and teachings fitly supplement 
those of the sainted grandmother whose body laid in the 
little cemetery at Mount Adams, back in Arkansas? 

When Aunt Sally died she simply told her friends 
good-bye, and said: 

"I see the beautiful gates open and earth seems fading 
away. All is well. I have fought the good fight and am 
going home to glory." 

Old Charley Derrickson was a colored preacher who 
was wont to tell the Lord about the refugee boy and seek 
to implant in the mind of Bascom the eternal, living 
truths. Although an ordained Quaker preacher, he had 
few of the Quaker characteristics when it came to method 
of expression. He could be heard coming along the road, 
night or day, shouting and singing his praises to the 
Great King. He would expound the Scriptures and 
preach a sermon at any time and anywhere, on the slight- 
est suggestion that by so doing he could awaken a sleep- 
ing flame of religious fervor and bring a soul repentant 
to its Maker. 

In the days before the war Derrickson worked a sec- 
tion of the "underground railway" by which escaping 
slaves were helped to Canada. He lived to be over a 
hundred years old and was gathered to his fathers like a 
patriarch of old. He did not go, however, until Bascom, 
as a successful business man, had been able to tell him 
in person of the influence he had exerted on his life. 

"Dutch Will," as a little German who lived right by 
the church used to be called, could only stammer in his 
broken way and say the same thing over and over again 
in prayer meeting and class meeting: 

"My Christian friends, I can schtill say I'm trying to 
serve the Lord, und I vants you all to pray for me." 

That was all, but somehow, with his life of simple god- 
liness, no more was needed. Through such men as this 

[112] 




$ CHffiLIL DE&RIOKS ON "NIGGED PREACHERS 




♦ TYPICAL SOUTHERN COLORED 



humble toiler Bascom came to realize that it was the liv- 
ing of the truths of the Gospel that counted, not the elo- 
quence of words. 

Then came Jesse Parish, one of God's noblemen. He 
had served in the Army of the Cumberland for four years, 
and had carried his old-fashioned Methodist religion all 
the way through. His Bible was his constant companion. 
When it is known that he was the brother of Aunt Sally 
the wonder at this steadfastness may not be so great. 
Profanity, liquor and gaming were outside his role. He 
was deeply interested in Clarke and a sterling example 
of righteousness to the boy. A daughter, Doctor Rebecca 
Parish, is a Christian medical missionary in the Philip- 
pines. There she has erected a hospital for the poor and 
is training native girls to help "La Doctora" care for 
the unfortunates. Every grief assuaged, every misery 
relieved, every suffering mitigated through the instru- 
mentality of this good woman is a testimony to her father 
and mother, from whom she drew the inspiration to do 
good. 

There is always in every community one character who 
stands as the center of influence and to whose judgment 
nearly everybody yields. In the Bethel church neighbor- 
hood John Mitchell, the 'Squire, occupied this position. 
He was the dominant factor in the church as well as in 
the neighborhood. He had a big farm, well tilled, and 
for those times was wealthy. He was slow and deliberate 
in speech, and as a result never gave utterance to an 
opinion which had not been carefully weighed before ex- 
pression. No class meeting was complete without him, 
and a church service which did not behold him in his 
pew was a rarity causing immediate comment and inquiry. 

He was a giant in size and would as soon fight as pray 
if he thought he was right. He bore the burdens of more 
of the community than any other person and by his good 
sense often helped to solve its perplexing problems. The 
'Squire was consulted on everything, from the laying out 
of a new highway to the proper name for the new baby ; 
from the complexities of the tariff to the best means of 
8 [113] 



combatting the ravages of the grub-worm ; from the things 
which would bring the greatest prosperity to the com- 
monwealth to the best time to sell the calves. Widely 
read and of ripe experience, he was the oracle of Potato 
Creek. 

When he was " converted" it was not in the stress and 
excitement of a " revival," but through deliberate rea- 
soning, ending in his walking up to the chancel and offer- 
ing himself as a candidate for probation. Immediately 
the reins of leadership in the religious society were 
handed over to him, and he took them as naturally as he 
assumed the chair at town meetings or political gather- 
ings. He never knew fear. The banner he carried would 
never trail in the dust except it fell with him. 

This spirit was demonstrated on the occasion of the 
McKendrie camp meeting. All Bethel church was there, 
together with the Methodists for miles around. In addi- 
tion to those who came to pray and praise there were 
those who came to scoff and ridicule. Among the latter 
was " Devil Ike" Wyant, with a gang of roughs, intent 
on breaking up the meeting. The first skirmish took place 
one forenoon, when "Devil Ike" knocked down "Lige" 
Mitchell, the 'Squire's brother, who had remonstrated 
with Ike for swearing. In the altercation which followed 
Wyant found the numbers too great and left, vowing 
that he would return in the afternoon with reinforce- 
ments and break up the meeting. 

It was a serious situation, for the campers were satis- 
fied that the threat to return would be made good. They 
counseled together, and some were for abandoning the 
meeting and leaving rather than have trouble. But John 
Mitchell decreed otherwise. 

"We are doin' the Lord's work, and with His sanc- 
tion, and 'if God is with us, who shall be against us?' 
I ain't afraid o' no man livin' if the Lord's on my side. 
We'll fight." 

He drove immediately to Midway (now Colfax), about 
two miles away, and procured a warrant for the arrest 
of Ike and other disturbers of the peace whose names 

[114] 



were unknown. On his return he handed the processe 
to "Billie" Blacker, the constable, a faithful Christian, 
and said : 

"Now, Bill, you serve the writ and I'll make the ar- 
rest." 

Sure enough, the afternoon brought "Devil Ike" and a 
crowd of the toughest element in the country round about. 
They were drunk and profane, threatening dire vengeance 
on the entire congregation. Blacker raised his hand in 
warning and said : 

"We've the law on our side, Ike, and I have a warrant 
for your arrest." 

Ike reached for his pistol, but before he could draw it 
the 'Squire, who had cut a stout hickory club and was 
close at hand, felled him to the ground like an ox. With 
Ike out of the way his attention and that of the others 
was directed to the remainder of the gang until every 
member was either under arrest or beaten into insensi- 
bility. All were taken to the village and fined heavily. 

"Devil Ike" left town vowing that the life of John 
Mitchell should be the forfeit for his share in the affair. 
The desperado had lost one hand in a duel in Illinois 
before the war, and afterwards killed the man who had 
crippled him. It was claimed by his friends that Lincoln 
had defended and cleared him of the charge of the mur- 
der. His reputation was well known and Mitchell real- 
ized that if occasion were given Ike would probably make 
good his threat. 

The desperado returned to Illinois, remaining there for 
several years. When he came back to Indiana Wyant 
renewed his threats, and many fears were expressed con- 
cerning the danger to the 'Squire. The latter gave no evi- 
dence, however, that he was worrying over the matter. 
On his way to Crawfordsville one morning Mitchell saw 
"Devil Ike" coming in his direction. The 'Squire was 
accosted with : 

"Oh, you old devil ! I've waited all these years for this 
chance. You owe me your life." 

[115] 



Before he realized it, Ike was looking down the muzzle 
of a revolver in the hands of the fighting Methodist and 
heard the quiet response : 

"Yes, and I've just got the change.' ' 

He saw the determination in the gray eye and the 
steady hand holding the revolver. With a curse he turned 
and drove away. A short time afterwards he was found 
dead with a bullet in his brain. A nephew was arrested, 
charged with the homicide. The 'Squire heard of it and 
voluntarily went to Frankfort to testify for the defense. 
On the witness stand he told the jury that whoever killed 
"Devil Ike" rendered a service to his country. Largely 
through his story the young man was cleared. 

There was one in the community who did not believe 
in Mitchell. That was Grandma Stook. Whenever 
Mitchell prayed she would jump up and run out of meet- 
ing. She said: 

"He is a deceitful old devil and cheated me in a land 
trade." 

The 'Squire was greatly disturbed, and he had tried 
repeatedly to talk to her and explain the matter. Con- 
scious that he had not at any time done her wrong inten- 
tionally, he felt chagrined at this public denunciation. 
But she would neither talk nor listen to him. So he was 
forced to give up and bide his time. The old lady was 
coming down toward the gateway that leads to the other 
world. As she realized her time was short she finally 
sent for the 'Squire and there came the reconciliation 
and forgiveness on both sides. 

"Pray for me, John, that God may forgive me as you 
have." 

Kneeling at her bedside he prayed for her soul's re- 
pose, not the stilted, formal prayer with which he was 
wont to petition the Lord at church services, but the 
pulsation of a great heart rejoicing at being at peace 
with this poor woman who had misjudged him. As he 
finished and arose she weakly placed her hand in his and 
said: 

"John, I believe God has heard your prayer." 

[116] 



Then she passed out in the beautiful beyond. 

These lives, in their richness and ripeness, their hopes 
and fears, and these incidents so demonstrative of char- 
acter, could not fail to help mold the life of the boy. And 
when the serious problems of life came to him later, those 
problems which called for the exercise of all his strength 
of mind and sturdiness of character, these influences, 
lodged within the doors of his memory, helped to make 
him strong and give him that faith which made moun- 
tains melt into molehills and rocky barriers to crumble 
into dust. More than once he was moved to thank God 
for having, through privation, want and suffering, moved 
him among these people, to let him know them and drink 
at the fountain of pure faith with them. It was a great 
discipline, hard and cruel at times, but such as would 
find the diamond of worth in a man if it existed. 



[117] 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The cornfields assumed the appearance of Indian vil- 
lages, with the shocked corn for wigwams. The early- 
frost had started the gorgeous tints on the sycamores, 
beeches and maples. It was too soon for the fall rains. 
The dust was deep in the roadways and hung like a gray 
blanket on the grass and weeds beside, rising in a chok- 
ing cloud with the passing of every vehicle. 

Down the highway from the Hoffman farm walked a 
solitary figure. On his head a dirty straw hat which the 
summer rains had warped into the shape of an old- 
fashioned bee-hive. His worn jeans trousers were in the 
tops of his heavy cow-hide boots. A well-worn, though 
clean, hickory shirt completed the vesture, while a 
garment intended at one time for a coat hung over his 
arm. Short of stature and lean of figure, with a face 
that told a story of hardships and hands that bore un- 
mistakable evidence of heavy tasks, Bascom Clarke was 
on his way to town to start upon a business career. 

He had no well defined plan of how he was to accom- 
plish it, with neither money nor business training. But 
he lacked the physical strength to wrest success in life 
on the farm under the agricultural methods of the time 
and the pay which a farm hand received. There lurked 
in his system the malarial germs brought with him from 
Arkansas, which, coupled with insufficient nourishment 
and neglect in his boyhood years, had left him physically 
impoverished. In addition to all this one of his legs was 
badly affected as a result of poison from a mosquito bite 
in the White River country, and was continually giving 
him trouble, making his work almost unbearable at times. 

After his relief from the bondage of Old Man Smith 
he had been with Captain Waugh until he was older, and 
then at other places in the neighborhood where help was 

[118] 



needed. But the life palled on him, and, seeing no future 
but drudgery and poverty, he resolved to change it so 
far as he could. Bascom believed he could not be any 
worse off than he was, and that sometime and somewhere 
a door would be opened to his ambition. 

He had sat on a plowbeam while the horses rested and 
watched the trains go by, building air castles with their 
steeples towering toward heaven and praying for the op- 
portunity to build real ones. He had seen the hustle and 
bustle of active business life and ached to get into its 
scrimmage, and then felt the strain of the halter strap 
which kept him traveling in a circle in the day's grind. 
He fretted at the lack of opportunity and wished he had 
a hundred dollars. It would enable him to show the 
world what he could do. 

But week after week and month after month he toiled 
at low wages, because farm help was held cheaply. He 
drove a team for one of the neighbors on the grading of 
the new railroad and had done all the varieties of work 
which would naturally come in a farming community, 
but there was no hope for growth or advancement, and 
absolutely no avenue for entering into business. 

Besides, there was the girl of his dreams, who had sin- 
gled him out for her especial favor at Captain Waugh's. 
It has been demonstrated over and over that nothing so 
spurs the ambition and stimulates industry as the holding 
out of the possibility that a certain woman may share in 
the things which may be wrested from the freakish Dame 
Fortune. 

Since the night this girl had been his partner in the 
game played he had never met her. But she had come 
into his discouraged life like a flash of hope and its light 
had remained kindled in his heart all the time since. He 
doubtless did not own it to himself, but it is more than 
probable that the greater possibility of seeing her and 
the hunger in his heart for the sound of her voice and the 
sight of her face had something to do with his fixing 
upon Colfax as the place wherein he should begin his task 
of conquering a place in the world for himself. With 

[119] 



this new element in his life it had dawned upon him that, 
instead of drifting with the current of events, he must 
carve his own future, and the sooner he started the carv- 
ing process the more chance he had of ultimately suc- 
ceeding. 

He realized as never before his lack of education and 
his physical unfitness. But if a woman, or the woman, 
was to have a place in his life, he must stop vegetating 
and commence to grow. In following the line of least 
resistance for so long he had almost forgotten that he was 
a Clarke. To most of the people he was still connected 
in mind with the Smiths. And so it was when he an- 
nounced to the Hoffman family that he was going to town 
to live and work, they pitied his judgment and ridiculed 
the idea that with no prospect and no money he should 
refuse to let well enough alone and waste time in the 
village. 

John Ghent was busy in his one-man drug store when 
he looked up and beheld Bascom standing there, evi- 
dently waiting to see him. Supposing he came as a 
customer, he turned to him when at leisure and asked 
him what he wanted. 

"I want a job, sir," answered Bascom. 

"A job! What do you know about drugs?" 

"Nothing." 

Now, it came to pass that as Bascom had waited in 
this particular store on this and other occasions his mind 
had been busy conjuring up the things that could be done 
by him there, so much so that he had practically hired 
himself to Ghent before that individual was aware of it. 
A one-man store is different from a one-man band. In 
the latter the proprietor gets some sort of harmony and 
rhythm out of the various instruments he plays with his 
hands, feet, elbows, knees, mouth and head. In a one- 
man store the more the man wriggles and twists and 
hurries to meet the demands of the trade the more of 
disorder and chaos results. 

John Ghent's place of business was no exception. He 

[120] 



never had time to put things in order. The dirt covered 
the windows, shelves and goods. The bottles of drugs 
were dingy and unattractive and the floor covered with 
litter and cumbered with boxes. By the end of the long 
business day the proprietor was tired enough to go to 
bed instead of spending time to clean up. As a result 
the store was certainly a sight to behold. Mrs. Ghent 
took time once in awhile from her household duties to 
"tidy up" a bit, but she had enough to do at her end 
of the partnership without spending many hours in the 
store. So when the question came Clarke was prepared 
to answer it. 

"Well, what can you do?" 

"I can wash them bottles, sir, and the windows, and 
mop the floor!" 

Ghent looked at him a minute, sizing him up and con- 
templating the matter, and then, as though struck with 
having help of that kind, said : 

"All right, go ahead. You've got a job on probation." 

And thus Bascom began his business career. Nothing 
was said about wages or pay. He began on the windows 
immediately, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing them 
shine, and for the first time in months at least the outside 
public were able to get a view of the interior. Then he 
began on the bottles. During the day Ghent called him 
to get things and told him where they were, so he was 
continually on the jump, busy and for the first time in 
many a day, happy. He was alert to anticipate what was 
wanted by the proprietor in addition to keeping broom, 
mop and wash rags busy. 

He soon demonstrated, to his own satisfaction at least, 
that he was a useful if not absolutely essential part of 
the business. He went up to the house and Mrs. Ghent 
gave him his dinner and supper. The boy seemed to win 
his way to her heart immediately. He had no inkling 
as to whether he was to be kept beyond that day until 
an incident happened in the evening which established 
his place and value and solved the question for Ghent at 
once. 

[121] 



Four men had come into the store for oil and grease 
for their threshing outfit, near town. During the evening, 
previous to their coming to the drug store after neces- 
sary supplies for their machinery, they had spent several 
hours at "Old Jerry's" place across the street, taking on 
a supply of " forty-rod" whisky which had a fight in 
every drink. So by the time they reached Ghent's estab- 
lishment they were in prime condition for a quarrel. 
"While Ghent was getting the oil the leader of the gang, 
a big, burly, noisy fellow, suddenly began to apply some 
unrefined and approbious epithets to Ghent and finally 
charged him with being a thief and cheating him at a 
horse trade, ending up with a declaration that he intended 
to "mop the floor" with him. 

Clarke came in from the back room just in time to 
hear the altercation, and jerking an old Derringer pistol 
out of his pocket was at Ghent's side in an instant. Just 
as the big brute had his fist raised to strike and the 
others were gathering in to close on the druggist, they 
found themselves confronting the muzzle of the gun. 
They hesitated long enough for Ghent to recover from 
his surprise and reach into the drawer for his pepper- 
box, and with two pistols trained on the disturbers Ghent 
calmly told the men that a move on their part meant in- 
stant death. 

They looked into the determined faces of the man and 
boy, and then the fight of the liquor departed and fear 
took its place. They began to beg, the leader the loudest 
among them. Then they began to abjurgate themselves 
and the whisky courage turned to whining remorse of 
conscience until, thoroughly sobered by the menace of 
death, they apologized for their language and conduct. 
Mutual explanations were then made by Ghent and the 
gang leader anent the horse trade and the latter departed 
with his retinue, loud in his protestations of everlasting 
friendship. 

When they had gone, the druggist turned to the boy 
and extended his hand: 

"Your probation is at end, son. You stay." 

[122] 



The events of the evening were duly told to Mrs. Ghent, 
after the store had closed, and she put her hand on the 
boy's head, looked into his face and quickly assented to 
the arrangement. Then she told him not to stay late in 
the store, but to come home and go to bed early, thus 
avoiding much of the roughness and coarseness the town 
contained. The line of railroad, now a part of the Penn- 
sylvania system, but then known as the " Dolly Varden," 
was being built through the village, and the graders and 
construction gang included some pretty tough characters. 



[123] 



CHAPTER XV. 

If a person wanted a broad education John Ghent's 
drug store was a good school, — that is, if only breadth 
were desired and quality not considered. It was the ren- 
dezvous of all the village characters, from the minister, 
who dropped in once in awhile to rub up against a savory 
joke, to the construction gangster, who decorated his 
language with the latest inventions in the way of pro- 
fanity ; from the old woman, who came to get some of her 
favorite "yarb" for medicine, to the village maiden, 
bashfully asking for her first supply of cosmetics. 

The democracy of such an establishment is marked, and 
in this atmosphere Bascom Clarke swam like an old timer. 
At first he was a good listener. He attended to the duties 
of the place with unquestioned industry, feeling his way 
as it were to a recognized place in the community with 
which he had cast his fortune. Then came good-natured 
banter and raillery directed at him, which was caught 
and returned with interest until he became a general 
favorite of the habitues of the store. They conferred on 
him the nickname of "Doc," which clung to him all the 
remainder of his days in Colfax. 

By watching John Ghent compound the concoctions 
which he was called upon to dispense, studying the 
contents of the bottles and packages displayed in the 
main store and filling the prescription case, Clarke soon 
learned to evolve the mysterious mixtures himself, at first 
under the eyes and direction of Ghent, and then inde- 
pendently. Abner Trotter was postmaster and a section 
of the store was set off for the business of the federal 
government. Bascom was sworn in as assistant to the 
postmaster and helped to take care of the village mail, 
and the postoffice employe in a village who does not 
thereby obtain inside information as to the lives of the 

[124] 



people is dull indeed. He was the possessor of the life 
secrets of the patrons, and to his credit be it said, they 
remained secrets so far as he was concerned. Nor did he 
once take advantage in any way of the information thus 
obtained. 

His scrupulous honesty, genial manner and loyalty to 
his work made him an invaluable asset to his employer. 
Thus he grew into the affairs of the community. Of 
course he had his "try-outs," when the patrons of the 
store would test his mettle and see what he was made of, 
but he stood well under fire and by general consent was 
accepted as fit to be recognized as "one of them." 

The village doctor sized him up one day, soon after 
Clarke told Ghent that the drug store needed just such 
a chap as he would prove himself to be. 

"Well, young man," said Doctor Clark, "You don't 
seem to have had much difficulty in landing a job." 

"I allow," responded Bascom, "that a boy who is will- 
ing to curry the horses before breakfast won't have any 
trouble finding a job." 

"How do you like it?" continued the doctor. 

"All right, sir. I'll like any job I git till I git a better 
one." 

He was always hunting for things to do. One day 
when he went to dinner he noticed that Mrs. Ghent was 
nearly tired out. He stopped long enough to help her 
wash the dishes before he went back to the store. She 
demurred, but he said : 

"You're tired, ma'am, and that's what my mother 
would want me to do, I know." 

"God bless you, my boy," she said, and, softly pushing 
the waving lock back from his forehead, she kissed him. 

He went back to the store glorified. It was as though 
his mother's hand had caressed him and her lips had 
touched him. He was cleaner in mind than he was before 
he went to the house. These little touches of human 
sympathy meant more to his sensitive nature than could 
be measured in an instant. He had felt so utterly alone 
that a kindly word or act, which made him feel that he 

[125] 



was worth while to some one else in the world, lifted him 
up and gave him strength to go on and ambition to hope 
for better things to come. 

But a short time elapsed before he knew every man, 
woman and child in the village and the surrounding coun- 
try. Quick in thought and action, with a fund of original 
humor which stood him in good stead ; possessed of a cer- 
tain intuition which enabled him to judge and measure 
character ; having a temper that flashed up like gunpowder 
under provocation, and subsided just as quickly as soon 
the explosion was over ; tender and solicitous for the weak 
and generous to a fault, Clarke came to his own, and be- 
fore he was himself aware of it had a host of staunch 
friends. 

Pull of life and energy, the intimate relationship of 
neighbor to neighbor in a village, gave him abundant 
opportunity to know the oddities and characteristics of 
everybody. The spirit of mischief, always present, had 
plenty of chance for expansion, and his originality in 
devising unusual methods of entertaining himself and 
others is talked about even to this day.. 

This close rubbing up against people, and the taxing 
of his ability to meet the varied situations which were 
continually presenting themselves were of great service 
in developing and rounding out his life. The young peo- 
ple at first looked at him askance, then tolerated him and 
then accepted him into their ranks. The down began to 
make its appearance and was carefully cultivated and 
stimulated to do its utmost to make a respectable showing 
on his upper lip. 

Even the minister's daughter, one of the prettiest girls 
in the town, thought he looked good, and, to tell the 
truth, he did. He had reached the age when a saucy look 
from a pair of bright eyes will create havoc with the most 
staid and sedate, to say nothing of a young man filled to 
the full and running over with youthful enthusiasm. So 
when the minister's daughter laughed a challenge to him 
to stroll with her he accepted with the pride of accom- 
plishment which can only be likened to that assumed by 

[126] 



Alexander when he had conquered the whole world. He 
was turned to a dark brown from his work in the sun on 
the farm, and especially was this true of his hands and 
arms. After he had walked home with the young maiden 
in the dusk of the evening and while he sat contentedly 
enjoying his conquest, she looked at his hands in the twi- 
light, and said innocently: 

"Why don't you take off your gloves, Mr. Clarke?" 

The fall of the walls of Jericho could not have been 
more confusing to the inhabitants of that city than the 
demoralization of the confident assurance of Bascom at 
this sally. He stammered out an explanation of some 
sort, but the joy of the visit was over. For once the flow 
of conversation on his part was dammed, and try as he 
would he could not find a place to put his hands, and 
then his feet gave him trouble until in sheer desperation 
he betook himself home. That speech may have cost the 
young lady a proposal of marriage, for, though he took 
her to places afterwards and visited at the house, it still 
rankled enough to keep him from going beyond certain 
well defined lines of conduct with her. 

Then, one Sunday, there came into the village for 
church the girl of the oyster supper. She was daintily 
dressed in a garment of soft red, with a parasol to match. 
He saw her and she saw him. It is possible he would 
have avoided the meeting if he had had time to prepare 
himself, but they met face to face. She stopped him and 
said: 

"I thought you told me you were coming to see me." 

"I was coming, but I didn't want to go to see anybody 
who didn't want to see me." 

"Just what do you mean by this? Didn't I tell you to 
come? You must have had your mind so full of other 
girls that you didn't stop to think of me again. I don't 
think it is playing fair to ask me to let you come and then 
have me sit and wait for you until I have to believe that 
you didn't want to come." 

Then came the explanation. It took several hours, and 
neither seemed to begrudge the time. They strolled down 

[127] 



the railroad track to a spot on the bank of the creek, and 
there talked it out. 

1 ' They told me that you said that you only said I couid 
come for fun and that if I did you'd show me the door 
right soon. ,, 

"I never did." 

"And I thought you didn't think I was good enough 
to come to see you, and I guess I ain't, however much I'd 
like to." 

"I never had such a thought. If I hadn't liked you 
that night at Captain Waugh's you can be certain I 
wouldn't have said for you to come." 

"And I knew that a fellow was goin' to see you that 
had money and I didn't have a cent." 

"Whether anybody has money or not doesn't make any 
difference in my friendship." 

"And I haven't got any home or any folks, and I 
thought you felt I was only a bit of driftwood." 

"I don't have to have a family tree handed to me by 
anyone who puts any value on my friendship." 

"I've thought of you and dreamed of you all the time 
since that night." 

1 ' Can you tell me how I was going to know that if you 
didn't give me the information yourself. I'm neither a 
mind reader nor an interpreter of untold dreams. If you 
didn't come to see me I simply had to believe that you 
didn't want to, in the absence of any other explanation." 

"I know it, and it's my fault. But you don't know 
how it feels, Belle, to have everything that's given to you 
passed over like you would give pennies to a beggar, and 
have people look at you and treat you as though you was 
a pauper. I knew that when Captain Waugh and his wife 
took me away from the Smiths they did it out of pity. 
Maybe I looked at it wrong, and probably they didn't 
look on it as charity. But I felt like one of the town poor. 
And I didn't dare to let myself think that you would pay 
any attention to a refugee boy. I did like you, and I did 
want to come and see you and I do like you now and want 
to come and see you. I want to be somebody. I don't 

[128] 



want to be nothing but a cipher in the world, and I am 
going to work hard. But I want you to share whatever 
I have. I believe if I could know that there was hope 
that you would marry me I could work better and harder 
and be more content with what comes." 

"Marry you! It's too soon to talk of that." 

"Nothing is too soon if it's right. My mind's been 
made up a long time. I don't have to have time to mooch 
over the thing. All I want is your consent." 

"But, Bascom, think! This is only the second time 
you've talked to me." 

"I don't care if it was only the first time. I know what 
I want and I've seen enough of life to know that there 
ain't no home without a woman. If you think I don't 
know all about you because I haven't been to see you, 
you are muchly mistaken. I'm just as certain now as I 
will be ten years from now. You can't live in a town 
like this and not know T the people. Don't you suppose 
your goin's and comin's have been watched by me all the 
time? I know what you've been doing and where you've 
been, and who with. And I haven't been hidin' my light 
under a bushel. I may not have been always right, but I've 
never been a sneak. What I've done I have done in the 
open, and everybody can judge whether I am square or 
not. If you think I'm not right — " 

"Oh, no, I didn't think anything of the kind." 

"And you don't care if I am poor?" 

"I'm not afraid of poverty." 

"Then, why don't you tell me you'll marry me," and 
have done with it?" 

"Because it's too serious a matter to decide offhand 
like this." 

"Not if it's the right thing to do. You've thought of 
me some, haven't you?" 

"Why, yes, of course." 

"And you've thought that some time I might ask you to 
marry me, haven't you?" 

"Why, what a question!" 

"Well, you have, haven't you?" 
9 [129] 



"What reason have you for thinking that?" 

"I'm not hunting for reasons! I'm chasm' facts. You 
have, haven't you?" 

"Well, it seems to me a girl would be mighty foolish 
to be thinking a fellow would ask her to marry him when 
he wouldn't even come to see her." 

"You're dodgin' the question, Miss Watkins. I've 
asked it several times." 

"You had no right to ask it, and I don't have to an- 
swer. 

"That's enough. You have thought it or you'd 'a' 
popped out a big 'No!' long before this. Now, if I've 
thought of it all this time, and you've thought of it all 
this time — " 

"I told you I hadn't said I thought it." 

"I know. Now, assuming these things — " 

"But you haven't any right to assume." 

"As I said before, assuming these things, why should 
it be necessary for me to wait five or six months or a year 
before I take with me back to my work the feeling that 
if I do win out in the world you'll be part of the scheme. 
I ain't had much of what I wanted in this world, girlie, 
and I don't believe you have the heart to deny me this 
one hope which means more to me than I can tell you. 
Tell me this, Belle, please, because it will do more for me 
now than anything else : If I go on working and trying 
to climb up the mountain side of life, though the road is 
hard and rough and tiresome, can I look forward to the 
time when you'll put your hand in mine and go with me?" 

There was no answer. The girl was studying the 
ground. 

"I haven't any mother, Belle, dear, and no one to care 
whether I live or die. I haven't any folks and a fellow 
without folks is a pretty lonesome cuss. I want you. I 
haven't any highfalutin' language to throw at you and I 
wouldn't use it if I had it because you've got too much 
sense to listen to it. I'm so poor that the shadow of a 
ten dollar bill would make me feel rich. But I ain't afraid 
of the future if I've got somebody to work for. God 
won't deny me fair wages if I'm square and I'm just as 

[130] 



sure that He sent you to me as that 1 am sitting here. 
Why else should He have put me through all this hard- 
ship and sufferin' and brought me here, then send you to 
Captain Waugh's and prompt you to pick me out of all 
the rest, and then pilot you to meet me this afternoon? 
I ain't never doubted Him since the days of my dear old 
grandmother, and I ain't doubtin' Him now. So far's 
I'm concerned it's all settled now, and I'm only waitin' 
for you to agree. There ain't no use talkin' — I gotta have 
you. Belle. I just wish you could feel a little bit that you 
might like to come. I'd feel better. Say! Tell me: 
You're goin' to say yes, ain't you?" 

"Say 'Yes' to what?" 

"To all I've been asking you. You will marry me, 
won't you?" 

"Why—" 

"No 'whys,' but you will, won't you? Say 'Yes'! darn 
it, say 'Yes'!" 

"Well, 'Yes,' then." 

With a whoop, Bascom jumped to his feet and, in his 
excitement, grabbed her open parasol and, waving it 
around his head, threw it into the creek. Then he hauled 
out a revolver and shot it full of holes before it sank out 
of sight. 

This almost caused a rescission of the consent on the 
part of the future Mrs. Clarke, but the ebullition of spir- 
its was so genuine and his joy so apparent that, coupled 
as it was with immediate repentant dismay, she forgave 
him. She made him sit down again, and they talked long 
and earnestly concerning the things to be accomplished 
before it would be possible for them to be married. Their 
newly established relationship was to be a secret between 
themselves until such time as it should be wise to dis- 
close it. 

After he had taken her to her aunt's house in the village 
Bascom went back to town with his head high in the air, 
and it never came down again. lie had won his first great 
victory in the battle of life and one which he knew then 
meant the obtaining of the promise of the absolute sinews 
of war in the conflict, a good wife. 

[131] 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Father and Mother Watkins were not very favorably 
impressed with the idea of a union of the houses of Clarke 
and Watkins. At least that is what might be gathered 
from the reception given by them of the news that Belle 
had been seen in company with the young drug clerk. 
Their prejudice and protest were shared in by the other 
members of the family, resulting in decided discomfort 
for the lady most concerned. 

"What you doin' 'round with 'Doc Smith,' Belle?" 
asked Pa Watkins. 

"His name ain't Smith, Pa. It's Clarke. I've told you 
that before." 

"I don't care what his name is, but he's a piece of trash 
that Old Man Smith brought up here from nobody knows 
where, and you don't know anything about him, or who 
he is, yet you go trapsin' 'round with him, I understand." 

"Yes, I've been with him twice, and I presume I'll go 
with him some more." 

"Why, Belle!" said the mother. 

"Now, don't side with Pa in his abuse, Mother. He 
don't know Mr. Clarke." 

"No, an' I don't want to know him, nuther," sullenly 
defended Watkins, pater. 

' ' That ain 't fair, Dad, and you know it. I know enough 
about him to know that I'm happy with him and I ain't 
happy with anybody else, and I'll bank on his bein' 
right." 

"But, Belle," mildly interposed the mother, "He's a 
nobody and there's — " 

"Oh, yes, I know what you're going to say and who 
you mean. You've been throwing him at me or rather 
me at him for years, just because he has money. I sup- 
pose you'd like to say, 'Yes, that's our daughter, the wife 

[132] 



of so-and-so. He's very wealthy and comes of one of the 
oldest families in Indiana." 

1 'Belle, don't forgit yourself!" sharply interposed Mrs. 
Watkins. 

''I ain't forgetting. Haven't I had him served up to 
me for breakfast, dinner and supper? And haven't you 
made icebergs out of yourselves every time any other 
young man has come into the house with me. The trouble 
is you've got your hearts set on me marrying your pick- 
out, and as I'm the most interested party I prefer to pick 
out my own husband.' ' 

"You're showin' mighty poor jedgment," added the 
father. 

"I presume the same words are familiar to Ma as 
having been said when she picked you out, but I'll bet 
she stood pat." 

"Now, Belle, that ain't no way to talk to your father," 
broke in the mother, though if one looked sharply he could 
have seen a flood of recollection lighten her countenance. 

"Well, it's the truth, for I've heard you say yourself 
that your folks tried to keep you from marrying Pa, 'cause 
they thought he wasn't good enough for you. And yet 
he and you and all of you are poking in my affairs just as 
though you hadn't been there yourself." 

"But, Belle, we're doin' it for your own good," de- 
fended the mother. 

"Oh, don't argify with her, Mother," put in Pa Wat- 
kins. "She's like all the rest of the girls nowadays. They 
take the bit in their teeth and ain't got no respect for 
their elders and don't want none of their advice." 

"Now, that ain't fair to me, Pa. Ever since I've been 
old enough I've worked and scrubbed and been in the 
fields and helped every way I could, and you've told me 
yourself I was as good as a man about the place. But 
that was when I was a piece of machinery savin' you 
money. Nobody has ever had any reason to say anything 
against me, and I have played the dutiful daughter role 
to the limit. I've never refused to do anything you asked 
me. The trouble is you haven't found out that I've grown 

[133] 



up. I'm. old enough to judge things from a woman's 
standpoint, as my mother judged them for herself, and so 
far as this particular matter is concerned I only ask that 
you let me be judge, as I will be the only one to suffer if 
I make a mistake." 

''Well, keep him away from here. I don't want noth- 
ing to do with him. You make your own bed and you lie 
in it. I wash my hands of it." Thus Pa Watkins ended 
the discussion that time. But it was renewed over and 
over. 

Meanwhile Bascom was paying court like an old-timer 
at the game. He borrowed Dave Ball's horse and buggy 
and Sunday afternoons they had long drives, talking those 
things which are not essential to be made public, but 
which can be imagined by those of experience and 
dreamed by those yet to pass through the gate of love. 
Always, however, the drives began and ended at the house 
of the aunt in the village. And even here Clarke seldom 
got beyond the threshold. 

"I don't want to have any trouble with your folks, 
Belle," said the aunt, "So while I sympathize with you, 
I don't think it best to let you do your courtin' in my 
house. It don't look right." 

Bascom insisted on going to her home to see her, but 
she kept him away on one pretext or another, until one 
evening he refused to leave her at the gate and followed 
her into the house. 

"I may as well brave this storm first as last, Belle," 
he said. "I gather from your actions that the folks ain't 
takin' very kindly to the condition of affairs. But if I'm 
goin' to marry the daughter I at least ought to have an 
introduction to the father and mother." 

So he went into the house. The father acknowledged 
the introduction with a grunt, and the mother with a nod. 
Then a funereal silence ensued. Clarke, usually full of 
conversational topics and bent on making a good impres- 
sion, made various and widely divergent essays to open 
an exchange of civilties. But for once his diplomatic and 
breezy overtures were fruitless. Not an observation of 

[134] 



any kind could he obtain. An area of low pressure was 
present, and his conversational barometer began to drop 
until he finally gave up and scudded under close reefed 
sail for his home harbor. Telling about it afterwards to 
his best girl, he said : 

"It reminded me, 'Belle, of the story of the tramp 
printer, who got drunk and invaded the printing office, 
demanding work. The foreman kicked him down the first 
flight of stairs, the pressman helped him vigorously to the 
next landing, the editor fired him to the ground floor, 
where the office boy threw him into the street. As he 
scraped the mud off himself and rubbed the sore spots 
he turned around and said : ' I know what the matter is 
with those fellers. They don't want me in there.' I'm 
firmly convinced, after patient investigation, that the folks 
don't want me in there." 

"I didn't want you to go, Bascom, and I've tried all the 
time to keep you away. I knew just how it would be." 

"Oh, don't you mind, little girl. I don't. I've done 
my duty, and you've done yours. I would rather have 
had their blessing and a 'God-bless-you!' but if they don't 
feel it we'll have to make the best of it. If we fall down, 
Belle, in making our way in the world they can sit back 
and say they didn't have any hand in the affair nor lend 
any encouragement to it." 

"I'm awfully sorry," she said, as the tears of mortifi- 
cation and humliation came in spite of her fortitude and 
determination not to cry. 

"Never mind, girlie. Don't cry. Let's be brave. It's 
not the first rebuff I've met, nor probably will it be the 
last. I have told you, haven't I, about my old grand- 
mother, down south? When I was a little chap she told 
me: 'Honey, nevah doubt Ilim. There will come days 
when you think He has deserted you; when you'll wonder 
why you can't find Him. Pray to Him, Bascom — pray 
with all youah min' and strength, and the light will 
come. I want you to be a good man, Bascom.' I couldn't 
have come this far on the road, with all the troubles I've 
had, if it handn't been for this simple faith that God will 

[135] 



order all things for good finally. I ain't afraid, Belle, are 
you?" 

"No, I'm not afraid. Oh, how I wish I could have 
known your folks. God-fearing and God-loving people 
like that are genuine. There ain't any room for sham." 

"I wish you could have known 'em, too, Belle. I know 
we would have had their blessing. Maybe, maybe they're 
looking down from up there and helping us." His voice 
broke and he murumured, "Mother, oh, Mother, how I've 
longed for you!" 

Quick came the touch of the woman God had given to 
him, with her love and sympathy: 

"Don't, honey! She's happy, and I'll do everything 1 
can to make up to you for her loss. And I feel her bless- 
ing now, just as you do. We won't mind what folks say or 
do. We '11 have each other and the world can stay on the 
outside if it wants to." 

* ' God bless the day, girlie, when you came into my life. 
Yes, we'll fight the battle together, and never fail in our 
trust." 

Thus time went along, and the mutual confidence and 
understanding between the two grew and ripened. The 
opposition in the Watkins home was unabated. With 
ridicule and inuendo they sought to break the girl's will, 
but patiently, uncomplainingly she bore it all. The firm 
conviction that she was taking the right path gave her 
strength to go through to the end. 

In the meantime Bascom was earnestly striving to find 
some opening whereby he could increase his income. Five 
dollars a week looked mighty small. Just at this time, how- 
ever, life at home was being made almost unbearable for 
Belle, and her depression resulted in action on the part 
of Bascom, somewhat impulsive, it must be confessed, but 
such action as he deemed justifiable under the circum- 
stances. 

After much persuasion he induced Miss Watkins to con- 
sent to an immediate marriage. 

"But how will we live, Bascom?" she asked. 

[136] 



"It'll have to be one of those cases where the 'Lord 
will provide.' I'm going to throw judgment to the four 
winds, for once, and take a long shot based entirely on 
my faith in God. You ain't happy the way things are, 
and I've promised, you know, to try and bring you happi- 
ness. Will you do it?" 

With a feeling that she had reached the full limit of 
her endurance, and that her happiness could only be at- 
tained by such a step, she yielded. There could be no 
hope of a reconciliation such as would permit of her mar- 
riage at home, so their plans were made accordingly. 

Dave Ball had just bought a new buggy. He had prom- 
ised himself and everybody within hearing that this buggy 
was not to be hired or loaned to anyone, on any occasion. 

"I paid a hundred and a quarter for that buggy," he 
said, "and I've bought it for my private use. I've loaned 
and hired out every other rig I ever possessed to every 
Tom, Dick and Harry, and they've made every one of 
them look like a wreck. This one don't go to anyone, so 
you needn't ask for it." 

"Doc" approached him one day and took him off to one 
side: 

"Dave, I want to borrow your buggy!" 

"What the — ! Say, young man, didn't you hear my 
statement that I wouldn't let anybody have it?" 

"Yes, I did, Dave. But you'd let it go on a sort of life 
or death matter, wouldn't you?" 

"Life or death matter. You ain't got no life or death 
matter on hand." 

"Yes, I have, Dave. I'm going to get married, and in 
the strained condition of my finances I don't know of 
anything that could be nearer to a life and death proposi- 
tion than that, do you?" 

Dave opened his mouth in wonderment. 

"Going to get married! Who to?" 

"Belle Watkins." 

"Belle Watkins! Why, her old man would skin ye 
alive." 

[137] 



"V^ell, I've got to take that chance, Dave. Will you 
let me have the buggy ?" 

' ' I admire your nerve, not only in this buggy business, 
but in landin' that girl as a life partner right from under 
the old man's nose. I thought he had different arrange- 
ments for her." 

"He did have, perhaps, but the girl's for me. Can I 
have that buggy?" 

"I alius did think that girl had a min' of her own, and 
I ain't sayin' that she is lackin' in judgment. Though 
she's takin' a mighty long chance, ain't she, Doc?" 

"Success in life's made up of long chances, usually, 
Dave. Can I have that buggy?" 

' ' So you 're goin ' to marry Belle Watkins. Great Scott ! 
Is she grown up? I can hardly believe it. Where you 
goin' to live?" 

"I haven't got that far yet, Dave. My mind has been 
taken up with more weighty problems. Can I have that 
buggy?" 

"All my life I've been doin' things I said I wouldn't, 
just to be accommodatin'. Now, I'm going to stick to this 
one promise I've made myself that this buggy is not to 
be loaned." 

"Oh, Dave, I've just gotta have it. It means everything 
to me." 

"I said, didn't I, that this buggy is not to be loaned or 
hired to anyone ; that it was for my own private use ! ' ' 
thundered Dave. "Well, I mean what I say!" Then he 
added, after the illy concealed disappointment had settled 
on Clarke's face, "But of course the barn door is un- 
locked, and I can't help it if some one goes in and gets 
the buggy without my consent and uses it especially for 
the purpose of getting married. I presume I wouldn't 
feel called upon to prosecute them if the buggy was back 
there in the barn after it had served its purpose." 

Clarke was off like a meteor, the buggy disappeared 
for the day, the knot was tied so that it hasn't even 
slipped since, and the parties most intimately concerned 
returned to let the news trickle to the waiting curiosity 

[138] 



of the town. Consternation reigned at the Watkins home- 
stead. The father declared that the "young whippersnap- 
per" should never cross his threshold. This news was 
conveyed to Belle by members of the family, who were 
nonplussed by her reply : 

"Well, that bars me from home, then, for I won't go 
until my husband can go with me." 

Thus things ran along for some little time. The mother 
pined for her daughter, and the daughter wanted to see 
her mother and talk to her of her happiness. But the 
father stubbornly refused to yield and the daughter stuck 
to her imposed condition. The mother love finally con- 
quered. 

Watkins stopped his team in front of Ghent's one day. 
His hitherto unrecognized son-in-law came out and with 
a cheery nod unchecked the animals so that they might 
reach the tank for a drink. It was a thing he had done 
many times before. His love for animals made him go 
out in front any time he happened to be idle, and pet the 
horses of the farmers as they drove up to the town pump, 
and assist them to get at the water, pumping the tank full 
for them if the water happened to be low. 

Watkins seemed to be struggling with his lingual appa- 
ratus, but finally, in the first tone of civility with which 
he had spoken to Bascom, said : 

"Belle's mother wants her to come up to the house and 
see us." 

"Well, I've told her to go. I think she ought to go 
and see her mother. We don't have but one mother." 

"Belle says she won't come unless you do!" 

"She needn't feel that way. You're her folks and it's 
very plain I'm not. Tell her to go as far as I'm con- 
cerned. It'll do both her and her mother good." 

"But she won't come 'thout you, and so you-all mought 
as well come, too." 

"Am I to consider that as an invitation to come up, 
Mr. Watkins?" 

"Well. I presume that's what it amounts to. I can't 
stand her mother cryin' all the time, and it's all laid on 

[139] 



me. What's did can't be undid, and we mought's well 
make the best on it. So, you-all better come up." 
"Tell Belle's mother we'll be up to-night." 
The mother and daughter had their arms around each 
other and were crying in concert, the old man blew his 
nose with the sound of a Mississippi River steamer whist- 
ling for a landing. The sisters choked up and sobbed. 
The cause of all this disturbance stood awkwardly by, 
waiting for a calm in the storm whereby he might dis- 
cover a stray bit of sunshine. The old man, having seen 
these kinds of gales before, silently motioned to Bascom 
to go with him, and they went out to the barn where the 
conversation turned upon the condition of the crops and 
other safe topics by which men get acquainted. 



[140] 



CHAPTER XVII. 

A civil engineer, laying out the line of a projected rail- 
road, can cause more grief innocently than the worker in 
any other occupation except that of a minister of the 
gospel. The minister says the few words, "I pronounce 
you man and wife," and sets in motion forces over which 
neither he nor the gods have control afterwards. The 
surveyor wiggles his transit a little this way or that and 
recks not of the consequences, but raises and destroys 
towns in the operation, separates a man from his front 
door-yard, takes away his home, drives the cattle out of 
their favorite pasture and causes a general readjustment 
to extremely changed conditions. 

So it came about that by a slight twist to his surveying 
instrument the chap laying the level for the new Van- 
dalia line swung several hundred feet to the north of the 
village of Colfax to avoid having to fill a tract of low 
land and at the same time get a satisfactory location for 
the crossing of the Big Four tracks. He went on his way 
toward the east, but he left a trail of trouble in the town 
that broke friendships, cancelled engagements to marry, 
divided families, blasted hopes, and nearly caused blood- 
shed. At the time no protest was made ; in fact, it was 
deemed an advantage rather than a detriment to have the 
new noise and confusion removed that far from the im- 
mediate vicinity of the town. 

Old Doctor Clark owned the land adjacent to the new 
right-of-way, including the swamp with its "pussy wil- 
lows," bogs and cat-tails. He had a vision one day, went 
over to Thorntown and brought back the county sur- 
veyor, who, after looking over the ground carefully, laid 
out the plat of an addition to Colfax. Then the wise ones 
held the doctor up to ridicule, and jibed him about laying 
out town lots for the frogs and getting ready to build 

[Ul] 



houses for the mosquitos. But he kept his peace and 
went on with the work. The frogs seemed to be the only 
ones who took him seriously, and they discussed the mat- 
ter long and loud every night, while the village people 
laughed at the noise made by the inhabitants of "Doc 
Clark's City." 

Things conspired, however, to help the enterprise. The 
first really important move was made by the two rail- 
roads. In a spirit of economy the Big Four and the Van- 
dalia line built a joint station at the crossing of the lines, 
that one agent might attend to the affairs of both compa- 
nies. This required the inhabitants to walk a little far- 
ther in the pursuit of their daily avocation of going to 
the " depot' ' to see the trains come in, but it was not 
looked on as a special menace to tranquility. 

Then along came E. H. Johnson, a fellow who had made 
his money in California during the gold excitement of 
"forty-nine," and who, since that time, had been a suc- 
cessful merchant. He had recently sold out his business 
in one of the other towns in Indiana and was looking for 
a new location. Following the new railroad he had dropped 
into Colfax. 

The "Commercial Club" did not welcome him, and he 
received no encouragement to remain. There were mer- 
chants enough. In fact the people then in the town would 
be sufficient to transact all the business which might be 
attracted by the new means of communication. Being on 
the ground they looked on all outside capital seeking in- 
vestment as poaching on their preserves, unless said out- 
side capital would be content to leave itself in the hands 
of the original inhabitants and go on about its business. 
There were no store buildings to be rented, and the pat- 
ronage of the town would not warrant the construction 
of any more. 

Dr. Clark, however, took in the situation at a glance. 
He invited Johnson to take a ride with him. This was a 
signal for much hilarity on the part of the old-timers. 
There was an immediate call of the roll in Ghent's drug- 
store for the purpose of commenting on the probability 

[142] 



of Clark's ''soaking" the stranger with some of his bog 
property. 

"Well," said Marion Fitch, "if he buys in that there 
swamp he'll buy with his eyes open, for 'Doc's' taken him 
there in broad daylight." 

"He had to take him in the daylight to pick out the dry 
places to stand on when they viewed the landscape," said 
another. 

"I hear the feller wants to run a store," chimed in John 
Girt. 

"If he does he'd better have a supply o' stilts for his 
customers to cross the ditch on," volunteered Bartholo- 
mew, the undertaker. 

"Oh, no !" answered the hardware dealer, "By the time 
he gets any customers over there they'll have flyin' ma- 
chines invented." 

"He won't have any trouble gettin' all the greenbacks 
he wants from his nearest neighbors," said the village 
joker, following his sally with a fair imitation of a croak- 
ing frog. 

This being the place always set forth in the program 
for laughter, everybody indulged. 

"Don't you suppose 'Doc' Clark knows what he's 
about?" inquired Bascom. 

"Course he knows what he's about, and I hopes he gets 
some dough out of the stranger. He ain't afraid to loosen 
up when he's got it," said John Ghent. 

"I don't know that it's hardly right for him to palm 
those worthless lots off on a stranger," remarked the 
minister. 

"Oh, that feller's got his eye teeth cut, all right," an- 
swered the undertaker. "He ain't no spring chicken. If 
you pi'nt out the ring-bones and spavins to the cuss and 
he hears the horse heave, and then wants to buy, let him 
have it. Same here. 'Doc's' taken him over with the sun 
shinin', an' if the feller thinks he can make a metropolis 
out o' a frog pond let him go to it, I say." 

"They built Chicago in a swamp, didn't they?" said 
Bascom. 

[143] 



"Well, Sheecawgo is Sheecawgo and Colfax is Colfax, 
that's all there is to that," said the hardware man. 
"They's plenty o' good land west and south and east, 
without goin' across that ditch to build. 'Tain't none o' 
my funeral, howsumdever, and I say, let him buy if he 
wants to." 

Somebody called the undertaker to come across the 
street to his store, and with the possibility of selling a 
high chair for the new baby he departed and the con- 
ference was at an end. 

When Doctor Clark returned from his drive with the 
stranger he was non-committal over the result of his ne- 
gotiations, but it was apparent from his countenance that 
he was not at all discouraged. 

"How'd you make out, Doc?" asked John Ghent, when 
the store was empty. 

"Oh, he's thinking the matter over/' said the Doctor. 
"Ill probably hear from him later. Better buy some lots 
over there, John. ,, 

1 * Not me, ' ' responded Ghent with a laugh. ' ' This place 
is good enough for me." 

"Maybe so, but you might not be making a bad invest- 
ment at that." 

"Oh, come off, Doc, you don't think for a minute that 
anybody with any sense is going to go 'cross that ditch 
to make a town ! ' ' 

"Stranger things have happened, John, and I wouldn't 
be surprised if there was quite a collection of people on 
the other side after awhile, together with some good busi- 
ness houses." 

"Haw! Haw! Business houses! Why, you're dream- 
in', Doc. If you keep on you'll be one o' these reg'lar 
real estate men what kin see a hundred thousand popula- 
tion in a two thousand town without closin' his eyes." 

As Ghent turned away to attend to a customer, the old 
doctor put the question to Bascom: 

"How about you, Clarke? Are you going to invest?" 

"My ship hasn't come in yet, Doctor, and I can't buy, 
but I'll bank on your judgment." 

[144] 



"Never mind, son, keep your eyes open and don't tell 
everybody your business and your ship will come into 
port. Just remember that the fruit along the beaten path 
is usually picked pretty clean. If a fellow calls you a 
fool for doing something you've worked out yourself in- 
stead of imitating someone else, just keep plugging along 
and wait. The fellow that called you a fool will swell all 
out of shape because he knew you when you were poor, 
and go shouting to the world what a genius you are, and 
that he always knew you were destined to succeed." 

Johnson was in town quite often after that, and finally 
the "knockers' club" was amazed to find an unusual stir 
on the other side of the ditch. Brick walls and chimneys 
began to make their appearance until quite a pretentious 
aggregation of structures resulted. Then all Colfax sat 
up and took notice of the passing events. Merchants and 
other business men in the new town opened their places 
to the trade and began making bids for patronage. Prices 
were cut to attract custom, and the housewives, always 
hunting for a bargain, soon had a path worn across the 
low ground. The old stores retaliated and a merry war 
resulted. 

The new addition was derisively called "Bucktown," 
while the old village heard itself jeeringly referred to as 
"Cobtown." If calico went down a cent in "Bucktown" 
it was reduced two cents in "Cobtown." If the price of 
ten pounds of sugar was shaved five cents in "Cobtown" 
it was lowered seven cents across the ditch. The old- 
fashioned brimstone matches, commonly called "seven- 
dayers," usually retailed at ten cents a box. The inter- 
nal revenue on them at that time was three cents a box, 
and they cost at wholesale seven cents. "Bucktown" 
made a coup on matches, retailing them at five cents a 
box. John Ghent was quick to take advantage of this 
and sent young Clarke to "Bucktown" to buy the supply 
for his store. 

The people in the old town were not as loyal to the old 
merchants as was hoped for. They said to each other: 
10 [145] 



"If these men can sell these goods now at these prices, 
why didn't they do it before?" 

And so the trade gradually began to show a tendency 
to balance toward the new town. In desperation the 
"Cobtownites" began to build brick blocks, and thus by 
up-to-date stores seek to hold the ever-ebbing tide of 
patronage, but in vain. They had awakened too late. 
John Ghent saw the tendency of affairs, and with his 
usual quick judgment sold his store to "Ethan Allen," 
as he was known. Abner Trotter, the postmaster, also 
left for a new location, after obtaining from Bascom a 
promise that he would stay and look after the postoffice 
until Trotter's successor was appointed, at the same time 
telling Clarke that he had sent in his resignation and rec- 
ommended his assistant for the place. 

This seemed all right, and Clarke took full charge of 
the office. After taking possession of the store Allen 
gathered a few of his old cronies in the establishment and 
proceeded with them to celebrate his purchase with an 
all-night orgie. While Allen's head was still sore from 
the effects of the celebration Bascom took him to task 
for defiling the government postoffice in this manner, and 
virtually turning the place into a saloon. Allen opened 
up a battery of language that sounded too much like Old 
Man Smith at his best, down in Arkansas. 

The dignity of the government having been thus in- 
sulted, and its representative refused the recognition 
rightfully his due, Bascom picked up the postoffice one 
day and moved it to another building which at this time 
happened to be empty. This left Allen without a pre- 
scription clerk, but in the state of business this was no 
special hardship. A new modern drug store had been 
built and equipped in the new town, and thither most of 
the prescription business would go now anyway. 

The war between the two localities continued unabated, 
but the old town was losing. Resting content that the 
appointment was coming to him, and that he would be 
thus enabled to live on the returns of the office, Bascom 

[146] 



was destined to find his faith in mankind again shaken. 
There came to him one day U. E. Hawley, who had been 
of the number that some time before had taught young 
Clarke the lesson of brotherly love through the symbolism 
of the building of King Solomon's Temple. 

"Doc," said Hawley, "You are expecting to be ap- 
pointed postmaster, are you?" 

"Why, of course. Trotter read me the letter recom- 
mending me for the place." 

"Well, I have certain knowledge that he didn't rec- 
ommend you, whatever kind of a letter he read or showed 
to you. In reality he named your undertaker friend and 
this has caused a row among the whole caboodle of them. 
Our mutual friend, the milliner, would like to have it, 
and really of the bunch I think she is the most deserving. 
But the folks won't stand for a woman handling their 
letters and would think she was at least surmising on the 
contents, however innocent she might be. The hardware 
man has his petition secretly being circulated. Jim Ar- 
rick, as usual, is helping all of them and drawing money 
for preparing papers. Now, these fellows have double- 
crossed you. What are you going to do?" 

Stunned for an instant by the information that these 
men had thus betrayed him. Bascom only said : 

"I suppose that means give it up, then, for I haven't 
any political influence or powerful friends at Washington 
to help me. I'd fight 'em if I knew what to do." 

Just then he spied Captain Milton Waugh coming along 
the street and called him in. The captain was given the 
status of affairs, and the old fighting strain in his blood 
began to tell. 

"Send for Bob Dunbar right away," he said. 

"Bob" Dunbar was busy on his farm, on which the 
refugee boy had worked when Old Man Smith had drawn 
the pay. He came in immediately, not even waiting to 
change to his "town clothes." The matter was gone over 
and the need of immediate action was apparent. 

Hawley was postoffice inspector. On his previous visits 

[147] 



he had come into contact with young Clarke, who practi- 
cally did all the business of the office, and between the 
two there had sprung up a friendship that stood the young 
man in good stead at this time. He introduced the in- 
spector to Captain Waugh and the captain asked the for- 
mer to take a walk with him. They went away and were 
gone for several hours, going over the entire matter care- 
fully. When they came back the Captain said : 

"Son, I think you've come to the partin' of the ways. 
The ones that ought to 've stood by ye over here have been 
too busy layin' pipe for their own selfish ends to pay 
much attention to you. The fact is, most of your real 
friends is on the other side of the ditch. Now, our friend 
Hawley here, has solved the problem of this postoffice 
business so that you can get the appointment. I'll let 
him explain it for himself. " 

"You see, Clarke," said the inspector, or special agent 
as he was called in those days, ' ' this office pays about $15 
a month. The government pays $300 a year, or $25 a 
month to have the mail carried from the railroad station 
to the office. If the office is located within eighty rods of 
the station the railroad company has to deliver the mail 
without compensation, as a part of its general contract 
with the government. Now, if you will agree to locate 
the postoffice in which ever end of town the government 
designates, we will land the office for you. I am going to 
recommend to the department that the location of the 
postoffice be changed to a point within eighty rods of the 
station, and the department will, in my judgment, act 
upon my recommendation and order its removal. As I 
understand it, you have no other business now except that 
of the care of this office and it can make no difference to 
you where the office is located. Captain Waugh here, whom 
I have come to esteem very highly, and who has demon- 
strated himself a true friend to you, will go on your bond, 
together with your friend Dunbar. What do you say 
to it?" 

"If Captain Waugh and Mr. Dunbar go on my bond, 
it seems to me I should consult their wishes to some ex- 

[148] 



tent on the question of location. Captain Waugh was a 
friend to me when I had no friends, and if it is his wish 
that I take the office and move it there I will do it." 

"Thank you, son," said the Captain, acknowledging 
the tribute to him. "I am satisfied that the move is the 
right one. Hayden and Teeguarden have a fine drug 
store over there, and I have been to see them. They would 
be glad to have the office in their store, and you couldn't 
find a better place or better men to be with." 

"I'll move," said Bascom. 



[149] 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Acting on the report of the special agent the postoffice 
department appointed Bascom Clarke postmaster at Col- 
fax, and accompanied the appointment with an order re- 
quiring the postoffice to be moved to within eighty rods 
of the railway station. The order was signed by Mar- 
shall Jewell, postmaster general under President Grant. 
The bond was duly executed by Waugh and Dunbar and 
the formal transfer was made by the department. There- 
upon the new incumbent notified the patrons that after a 
fixed date the mail would be cared for in the new office 
at the drug store of Hayden & Teeguarden, located on 
the north side of the "Dolly Varden" tracks. The Apache 
Indians, leaving the reservation to go on a rampage, 
could not have made more noise with their warwhoops 
than was contained in the howl which went up from the 
Cobtownites. 

A deputation of "leading citizens," headed by John 
Girt, who had been most instrumental in persuading Trot- 
ter to change his recommendation from Clarke to the 
undertaker, crowded into the postoffice to labor with the 
"erring" young man, and persuade him to alter his de- 
cision. 

"Yes, I know all about you and your friendship for 
me," declared Bascom. "When I talked to you about Dis- 
appointment to the place, you pretended to be for me. 
You was the one who persuaded Abner Trotter to read 
my name into the letter to the postoffice department, 
when you knew he was recommending another man. Do 
you think I need any fatherly advice from a traitor to 
me? Not on your life. The office is going to be moved." 

"You can't get a man in this town to go on your bond 
as postmaster. Who knows anything about you? You 
drift up here from down south somewhere and if you think 

[150] 



anybody's goin' to trust you with the government money 
you're mightily mistaken." 

"Oh, I've got my bondsmen all right, and I'm not be- 
holden to the likes of you for them. There are two men 
on my bond, not two sneaks." 

"You are going a bit too far with your language, young 
man," said another of the delegation, as he moved a little 
nearer as though to threaten the postmaster. 

"I'm not usin' language half as strong as I'd like to. 
But you can't browbeat me or bluff me. This foremost 
citizen of yours is sorta hintin' that I ain't good enough 
to mix with you; that there's some sort of cloud on my 
name. My father and mother are both dead, but I stand 
here to protect the name they gave me against the dirty 
mouth of your spokesman. And if I hear any more of 
that kind of talk there'll be somebody hurt." 

"We'll see that your bondsmen withdraw. We'll pro- 
test your appointment to General Grant," piped up an- 
other. 

"I ain't afraid of your getting my bondsmen off. 
Neither of them has scraped off the image of their Maker 
and put on the coat of the devil. They were built accord- 
in' to the original plans and specifications of the Al- 
mighty, and they believe in old-fashioned honesty and 
square dealin'. As for General Grant: My folks was on 
the other side in the war, but he fought square and gave 
a square deal to my people when they were licked. I'll 
take my chances with him." 

"We hate to appeal to force," said the original spokes- 
man, "but you won't move that office." 

"I'd hate to leave behind me such a stench as would 
arise from the blood of such creatures as you," retaliated 
Clarke, "but I give you fair warnin' not to interfere with 
me in the discharge of my duty. It won't be wise. Good 
day, gentlemen." 

He turned to his work, white with anger, but holding 
himself well in check. The delegation, with its members 
muttering threats under their breath, departed. 

The next day, Jim Arrick, the town lawyer, who had 

[151] 



been made into a barrister from a country preacher, be- 
cause the latter occupation was not proving sufficiently 
remunerative, came into the office wearing his most im- 
portant air. He was backed by so much of the population 
that it amounted almost to a mob. 

"Let me see your copy of the regulations," demanded 
Arrick. 

Bascom gave him a copy of several years before. Ar- 
rick adjusted his spectacles, and proceeded to wade 
through the laws, rules and regulations governing and 
controlling the administration of the postal department. 
When he had gotten along pretty well with this copy, 
Clarke handed him another, with the remark: 

"As long as you're lookin' up the law, elder, you might 
as well have plenty of books." 

Arrick, who resented the term "elder" as indicating 
that he was a minister and not a lawyer, looked up for 
a moment and got ready to make a sharp retort, got a 
glimpse of the bland face with its innocent expression, 
thought better of it, and proceeded with dignified silence. 
His deliberations and search for the law took up so much 
time, and was so devoid of striking or exciting situations, 
that the crowd gradually dwindled down until no one 
was left except the lawyer. 

"Now, elder—" 

"Don't call me 'elder.' Call me Jim if you can't think 
of anything else." 

"All right, Jim. Now that the fellers that hired you 
are gone, and you're sure of your money — " 

"I'm not hired. I'm doin' this for the public weal," 
interrupted Arrick, striking his favorite attitude when 
addressing a political gathering at ten dollars per address. 

"New role for you, ain't it, elder — I mean Jim?" 

Before Arrick could recover to administer the verbal 
castigation, Clarke continued : "I was going to show you 
an easy way of earnin' your money. But if you're doin' 
it for the public weal you'd appear more like you was 
accomplishin' somethin' if you keep on porin' over those 
old regulations. But if you was gettin' paid, now, I could 

[152] 



put you next to somethin' that might end all your trou- 
bles.' ' 

' 'Well, what is it?" 

"No, I don't believe in interferin' with a cuss when 
he's workin' unselfishly for the public. The public don't 
appreciate him if he don't work hard, whatever he ac- 
complishes." 

"Well, suppose I am working for money — what then?" 

"Are you?" 

"Well, of course there was something said about com- 
pensating me for my effort." 

"But, did you get it, elder — I mean Jim?" 

"Oh, yes, in a way. They gave me a retainer o' ten 
dollars." 

"Sho! so much as that? Well, if you read this it may 
help you to form a definite and fixed opinion, after much 
careful study and deliberation and passin' sleepless nights 
in formin' your conclusions." 

He turned over to Arrick the order from the postmas- 
ter general directing him to move the office to within 
eighty rods of the railway station. 

"You see, Jim, the people should 'a' hired you before, 
and got out an injunction or somethin' of that sort to 
keep the railroad company from movin' the station down 
to the junction. The railroad company's a sight nearer 
to town than the postoffice department, and you might 
'a' had a bigger pull with them. I've got my orders, 
Arrick, and I'm goin' to carry them out. You'd better 
advise your employers that it won't do to monkey with 
me when I'm representin' the United States of America. 
It may be a big job for a puny scrub like me, but I'll 
have an arsenal along with me in case I need it. It's 
kind o' funny, Jim, for me to be defendin' the gov'ment 
postoffice up here while my folks ain't got through givin' 
the rebel yell on the other side of the line." 

Arrick departed, unable to carry much hope to the 
citizens. The order was plain, the postmaster was within 
his rights, and any interference, the lawyer knew, would 
invoke trouble with the government. Bascom did not 

[153] 



know this, and he prepared to move, fully believing that 
there might be forceful opposition. 

Having heard of the threats made against Clarke, a 
delegation of Bucktownites came over on the morning of 
the moving to be ready in case of trouble. Alf McFarland 
screwed up his courage, and backed his white horse and 
two-wheeled dray up to the door of the postoffice. The 
government property and mail, together with the personal 
possessions of the new postmaster, were piled on. 
Clarke, with a loaded revolver in each hand, sat on the 
load. The procession moved away without molestation, 
however, accompanied by the cheers of the accompanying 
Bucktownites. 

The new quarters were roomy and light, quite a con- 
trast to either of the old locations. Clarke put in a new 
outfit of the latest pattern of postoffice equipment and 
made the place as attractive as possible. The proprietors 
of the drug store, realizing the valuable asset to their 
business which the presence of the postoffice made, did 
everything to make the place comfortable and convenient. 

But Cobtown was not through with its opposition. 
What it had been unable to accomplish by force it now 
sought to bring about by boycott. The Cobtownites, 
knowing that the postmaster's compensation depended 
on the business he did, took all their mail to the station, 
instead of the postoffice, that the postmaster should not 
receive the credit for the stamp cancellations. The Buck- 
townites loyally swarmed to the aid of the office, and did 
missionary work to increase its revenue, but Clarke had to 
admit that the sledding was hard. It was two years be- 
fore the feeling wore away sufficiently for the people to 
realize that they were not helping themselves to any great 
extent, and that both Clarke and Bucktown were living 
without them. 

Then came the help he needed. Calvin Gault suspended 
publication of the Bos well Chronicle and brought his 
printing office to Colfax, establishing the Colfax Chronicle. 
Clarke, knowing everybody in the region roundabout, and 
having time while in the postoffice, consented to help 

[154] 



Gault in the way of items for the paper. His education 
was sadly deficient, but he was studying all the time, and 
by observation and a good memory gained a liberal, 
though not systematic training in the use of words, spell- 
ing and punctuation. 

He did his best in writing the items for the paper, and, 
by watching the corrections made by Gault, learned rap- 
idly. He seldom made the same mistake twice. He had 
an originality of expression which found its way into the 
paper and made it spicy reading. Local events were 
treated from the standpoint of one who knew intimately 
the entire population, while the gossip of the postoffice 
kept him in close touch with the events of the town and 
country. 

Gault, on the other hand, backed him up in his postoffice 
fight, and by timely, well written and good-tempered edi- 
torials, gradually helped to create public sentiment in 
favor of the postmaster, even among the recalcitrant Cob- 
townites. Gradually the feeling wore away. The princi- 
pals in the disturbance either moved away or transferred 
themselves, so far as business was concerned, to Buck- 
town, and peace reigned. The war was over, and the 
belligerant parties who were not hors de combat again 
joined hands for the general success of the town. 

Clarke was growing under the stress of events, and a 
general favorite. His accommodating ways, considerate 
kindness and attention to his duties brought continued 
praise. His furnishing of items to the newspaper could 
not be long kept secret and he had a way of intuitively 
seeing a newspaper story which would have entitled him 
to the credit of having a "nose for news." 

The offensive and defensive alliance formed with Gault 
continued without interruption during Gault 's stay in 
Colfax. But the latter was weary of the one-man printing 
office. If he was editor, why should he stoop to the menial 
occupations of setting type, twisting the old Washington 
handpress, making up and tearing down forms, and tread- 
ing the job press? So he welcomed the advent of a tramp 
printer, Riley Runyan, whose ability to stick the long 

[155] 



primer, set "ads," do job work and run any kind of a 
press appealed to Gault. Kunyan paused in town for a 
drink and a meal, on his perigrination, struck the printing 
office with an offer to set type therefor, and at the solici- 
tation of Gault remained as a partner. 

The fact that it was a one-man printshop was disclosed 
very soon. It furnished Cal with a fair living, but would 
not support two of them, especially when both of them 
were inclined to "take no thought of the morrow." They 
determined that the field was hardly large enough for 
their joint ability, and they betook themselves to Thorn- 
town, not, however, without leaving Clarke with a burn- 
ing desire to continue in the work of handing his opinions 
to the people in columns of cold type. This is nothing 
unusual, for a real newspaper man is never content, after 
having had a taste of the work, with any other demand 
which may be made upon his abilities. Bascom bided his 
time and the path was opened for him to follow his bent. 



[156] 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The Colfax Chronicle had a checkered career, finan- 
cially. Gault & Runyan had left it with a good sized 
chattel mortgage covering the property, and it had one 
or more of these interesting documents on file against it 
nearly all the time. These mortgages had been juggled 
with by transfers and re-transfers until William Jacobs, 
a red-headed Christian church preacher, was able to buy 
the plant for four hundred dollars, for which amount he 
gave his note. He had the bill of sale duly recorded, but 
evidently failed to have the chattel mortgage satisfied. 
He had for chief mechanic on the paper Charley Jarrell, 
who also boasted of a beautiful saffron tint to his hair. 
About the first thing Jacobs did was to approach Clarke 
one day, well knowing the latter 's anxiety to engage in 
newspaper work. 

"Say, Doc, how would you like to own the Chronicle?" 

"Why, I'd like it all right, but I haven't any money to 
buy it with." 

"I'll let you have it for what I gave for it, four hun- 
dred dollars. I've got a call to come to Illinois, and I 
feel that I must accept it." 

"I can't raise four hundred dollars," responded Clarke, 
but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lease the property from 
you and pay you sixty-five dollars a year rent." 

Jacobs finally agreed to do this, and a lease was ac- 
cordingly made out by which Clarke took over the plant 
and assumed editorial control. It is possible Jacobs knew 
there was trouble ahead, owing to the non-satisfaction of 
the chattle mortgage and his inability to meet payment 
on the note. At any rate he disappeared from Colfax, 
and returned to Illinois. Before going, however, he left 
the address of his father with Bascom that the new pro- 
prietor might send the rent money through him to the 

[157] 



son. Jarrell agreed to stay and manage the mechanical 
end of the property on a partnership basis. 

All went well until Jarrell was taken with the "high 
hat and kid glove fever," when he concluded to throw 
overboard his useless partner, as he deemed Bascom. 
Clarke had been industriously equipping himself for the 
work, and, while Jarrell was taking the credit, the fact 
was that most of the paper was the result of earnest toil 
on the part of the postmaster. Jarrell boarded with 
Clarke, without pay, and was given a home as one of the 
family. Jarrell, knowing the circumstances under which 
Jacobs obtained the plant, and having discovered that the 
old chattel mortgage was still on record, went up to Fort 
Wayne and entered into negotiations with Gideon Seavey, 
a curly-headed, red-headed lawyer, who held the first claim 
against the Chronicle outfit. 

Suspicioning his partner's duplicity and afterwards con- 
firming it, Bascom got into correspondence with the 
preacher and obtained a bill of sale from him for the 
property. He knew from the satisfied manner of Jarrell 
that he had been successful in his arrangements with 
Seavey and that trouble could be looked for. Not a word 
did he say to the scheming partner, however, until he had 
the whiphand. The mutual disclosure came at the Clarke 
table at supper. Without a cent of compensation he had 
boarded with the Clarkes for nearly a year. On this 
night, just after the meal was over, Jarrell pushed his 
chair back and casually remarked: 

"Well, Doc, our partnership will cease tomorrow. I 
won't need you any longer." 

Clarke calmly waited until the statement was com- 
pleted, and then said : 

"You are right about the end of our business rela- 
tions. You will oblige me by removing your personal ef- 
fects from my home as well as the office, not tomorrow, 
but tonight. I don't want you around either place after 
the length of time it takes you to get your things to- 
gether. You think I have been in the dark as to your 
scheming, but I have known all about what you have been 

[158] 



trying to do to me while eating at my table and living 
in my house. A man who will seek to undermine another 
in a business matter while accepting his hospitality is 
akin to the fellow who comes to make a social call when 
he knows he has the smallpox. You aren't fit to be in 
my house, and you certainly aren't worthy of my respect. 
So get out." 

He laid the bill of sale from the preacher under Jar- 
rell's nose, as the latter sat stunned by the turn matters 
had taken. 

"There are too many red heads mixed up in this busi- 
ness for it to thrive well, and we'll just follow the Scrip- 
tures that the last to come shall be the first to go. Don't 
stand on the order of your going but rid us of your des- 
picable carcass just as soon as you can." 

Jarrell's face looked like a mixture of chalk and poke- 
berry juice as he realized that his hand had been called, 
and that he had lost. He gathered up his belongings un- 
der the eye of the householder; they went to the office, 
where Bascom watched him while he obtained his per- 
sonal possessions, and the deposed partner then left. 

He did not leave town, however, but remained around 
to tell the people that Clarke didn't know enough to run 
the paper and that it would be a sorry looking affair 
when it came out. Further, he took everybody into his 
confidence and gave them the information that he would 
soon be in posession of the paper; that in fact he right- 
fully owned it now, but was being kept out of his rights 
by the postmaster. Clarke kept his own counsel, but ad- 
vised his friends not to worry. The paper would be out in 
some sort of shape, and they could then determine whether 
or not it was in capable hands. 

Fortunately the new sole proprietor obtained the serv- 
ices of a Frenchman named Barron, as efficient a printer 
as there was in the state of Indiana, and a thoroughly 
educated man. Within a few days he was in the office and 
making good. He still had the two Irish boys as helpers. 
Clarke threw himself into the editorial work of the first 
issue after Jarrell's ousting, and so earnestly did he labor 

[159] 



that it was not only as good as any of the preceding, but 
from a newspaper standpoint it was better. Then, this 
issue was followed by others, and from the quality of 
matter contained in it all the town came to realize that in 
reality it was Clarke who had been the spirit of the paper 
before. 

"Doc" laid out a "sanctum" with a carpet on the 
floor and neat furniture. In this secluded spot he could 
cogitate and work, and receive callers. A door opened 
from this room into the printshop, that he might be in 
touch with affairs there. Everything ran like clockwork 
and peace reigned. 

Jarrell had hung around town, having notified Seavey 
of his failure to obtain possession of the office. Seavey 
promised to come down and see that the "trespassing in- 
terloper" was thrown out of the office and Jarrell tri- 
umphantly placed therein. With a knowing air the evicted 
partner walked around and, in addition to doing all he 
could to injure Clarke and his business, bade the people 
to "just wait and they'd hear something drop." 

The promised "drop" proved to be Gideon Seavey, the 
red-headed lawyer, who dropped from the "Dolly Var- 
den" train one day, shook hands with Jarrell and had a 
short conference with him. Bascom saw that the time 
was at hand and cleared the decks for action. In the 
drawer of the editorial table was a convenient six-shooter. 
He hastily explained the situation to the French foreman 
and the two Irish assistants, and bade them arm them- 
selves with steel "side-sticks" and be ready to wield 
them if necessary. The "side stick" (to explain to the 
uninitiate) was a tapered piece of steel as long as the page 
of the paper. By a series of wedges placed between it 
and the "chase" or frame containing the page of type, it 
helped to hold the type in place so that the "form" or 
page of type could be carried about and put on the press, 
and remain in place during the process of printing. It 
can readily be believed that the "sidesticks" proved most 
formidable weapons. 

[160] 



The Frenchman quickly caught the trend of affairs, as 
did the two Irish lads, who were not only spoiling for a 
fight on general principles, but they deemed it a pleasure 
to fight for their employer, to whom they were loyal to 
the last meaning of that term. 

"Leave him to us," said the foreman, "We'll pi his 
form so that the devil himself can't lock it up again." 

"Yis. lave 'im tuh us," said one of the Irish lads whom 
Clarke had befriended on more than one occasion, and 
whose mother had frequently called upon the "Holy 
Mother" to bless and protect "Doc" for his help to her 
in her poverty. "Lave 'im tuh us, an' yez'll see a shindy 
worth lookin' at." 

"We'll fix him so his own mother won't know 'im," 
valiantly vouchsafed the younger of the lads, who en- 
joyed the title of "devil," his due under the printing 
office rules. 

The preparations complete, the editor went into the 
sanctum, lit a stogie, put his feet on the table and began 
examining the exchanges as though no storm were brood- 
ing, or, if it were, he had his lightning rods all in place 
and well grounded, all leaks in the roof repaired and 
the eaves ready to carry off the water. Seavey came 
stamping up the stairs. He neglected to pay his respects 
to the editorial department, but went immediately into 
the composing room. Taking out the chattel mortgage 
given by Gault & Runyan, years before, he snorted : 

"I hereby take possession of my property under this 
mortgage!" 

"You'll take posession of hell in about two seconds if 
you don't get out of here," responded the fiery French- 
man. 

"Where is the man who pretends to claim my proper- 
ty?" he shouted. 

This was Clarke's cue, and he called from the sanctum: 

"Silence in the composing room!" 

That was enough. Into the room came Seavey in his 
most belligerent manner. He was followed by the com- 
posing room detachment, each bearing his murderous 

11 [161] 



side stick. Seavey did not look around at them, but 
made immediately for the table where Bascom sat in seem- 
ing calm. Clarke pulled out the drawer of the table, so 
that his artillery might be within easy reach, and waited 
the onslaught. 

"Why, good morning, Mr. Seavey/ ' he said. "I thought 
it might be the apparition of the Eeverend William Ja- 
cobs, or it might be that other red-headed friend of mine, 
Charley Jarrell, come to get something forgotten in his 
hasty leavetaking. ' ' 

"You contemptible thief," shouted Seavey. "You will 
try to steal my property, will you." 

The editor let him go on without interruption. The 
lawyer hurled epithets and abuse at everybody from Adam 
down to Gault, Kunyan and Jacobs, winding up with a 
streak of vile and approbious epithets reflecting on 
Clarke, finally ending with an insult to the latter 's mother. 

' ' Stop ! and stop now ! ' ' said Clarke, as his gun came 
out of the drawer with its muzzle looking into Seavey 's 
eyes. "Say what you please so long as you don't charge 
me with dishonor or insult my mother's memory. Sit 
down and talk like a man or leave this room before it's 
too late." 

Seavey eyed the gun, took a look at the expression 
on the face of Clarke, and saw there a determination which 
he had not expected. He calmed down, took a chair and 
inside of ten minutes had apologized for his conduct, 
reached an understanding, put out his hand and said : 

"I give in, young man. You're on the square and I'm 
in the wrong. You have the legal title to the property, 
whatever mistakes may have been made with those I 
trusted. I acknowledge that you have had no hand in 
the crooked part of the deal by which I have been cheated 
out of my money. You have voluntarily agreed to assume 
a part of the burden, when there is no law on earth could 
make you, simply because you see I have been unjustly 
dealt with. I take off my hat to you, sir, as to a man, 
and from this time forth if there is anything I can do to 
be of service you have but to call." 

[162] 



As Clarke took the hand he answered : 

"I want to get along in the world, Seavey, but I don't 
want a cent of crooked money. I've fought my way al- 
most inch by inch to make good on the name I bear, and 
I shall never discredit it by a dishonorable act. I may be 
a two-by-four in size and a shingle nail so far as wealth 
is concerned, but I've a wife and baby, honesty, ambition 
and industry, and that ought to be enough to make a man 
reasonably happy. If a couple of fellows at variance, 
like you and me, will only take time to sit down and talk 
things over quietly and calmly, it won't take long to ar- 
rive at an understanding, but with tempers like yours 
and mine it seems as though there has to be about so 
much dynamite exploded before we can get down to the 
bed-rock of reason. I thought you were a bulldozing 
shyster trying to beat me out of my property and you 
thought I was a thief in unlawful possession of yours. 
We have each discovered the mistake. I am glad it has 
ended this way and pledge you my friendship." 

Seavey didn't stop to consult with Jarrell, but took 
the next train home, leaving with Clarke the sole owner- 
ship and possession of the Colfax Chronicle, without lien 
or hindrance. 



[163] 



CHAPTER XX. 

Country newspaper life, lived as it has to be lived, is 
something of an education in breadth and a thorough test 
of the powers of endurance. It is a hard school in strict 
economy, a constant stimulant to ingenuity and a certain 
training in descernment. It is a perpetual encyclopedia 
of inconsequential affairs grown to importance through 
the magnifying glasses of local significance. 

Take the country editor out of a town and it might as 
well be off the earth. Think of it ! No glowing accounts 
of weddings, no congratulatory announcements of births, 
and no tearfully written obituaries with which to fill the 
home scrap book. No joke on Jim Smith, enjoyed by all 
except Jim ; no description of the new barn at Spikes nor 
comment on the improvement made by the painting of 
Jones's house; no telling of the visit of Helen James, of 
Indianapolis, with the family of Zebedee Willis, nor of the 
party given in her honor; no one to chronicle the depart- 
ure of Grandma Wiggins to visit her daughter, the wife 
of a prominent business men in Terre Haute ; and so on 
through the events of a country town. 

Then, in the old days before rural delivery, the post- 
master was the most important personage. Through him 
communication was maintained with the outer world. 
Deprived of the pleasure of gathering to "wait for the 
mail to be distributed," and watching the box to see if 
the unseen forces behind would propel a letter therein, a 
certain percentage of enjoyment would be lost. And gos- 
siping with the dignitary through the little window, giv- 
ing and taking the latest observations on current topics, 
during an idle moment on both sides of the partition, was 
an opportunity for mutual confidences not to be lightly 
valued. This was especially true if the postmaster still 

[164] 



possessed "red blood," and was alive to the things going 
on around him. 

Therefore, when Bascom B. Clarke found himself occu- 
pying both responsible positions — editor and postmaster — 
he worked overtime to successfully administer the two. 
Of course "press night," namely, the night before the 
day on which the paper was dated, was a busy time. 
Then it was that the last batch of items was set by the 
compositors, the forms made up and laid on the "bed" 
of the old handpress and the paper was printed through 
the writhing, swinging and twisting pull on the lever. 
Then came the folding and addressing of these for local 
consumption, and the added wrapping of those destined 
for the out-going mail. The work of handling the Chroni- 
cle after it came from the press was in the hands of 
Clarke, and many a time the sun came up before his task 
was finished. 

"When old A. N. Kellogg invented "patent insides," by 
which a country printer could purchase his paper in Chi- 
cago, half printed with a good selection of miscellaneous 
matter and news, he made it possible for a respectable 
country newspaper to be printed where otherwise it would 
have been practically impossible. The "patents" cost but 
little more than the bare white paper, and Kellogg made 
his money principally from the advertising matter on his 
part of the sheet, the revenue from which belonged to him. 
Although the originator Kellogg did not enjoy a monopoly 
of the business, for "patent" houses sprang up in all the 
commercial centers. So Clarke had his patents from In- 
dianapolis, and under the supervision of Barron, his 
printer, the paper was typographically neat. 

No matter how much of a necessity to the community 
he was, the country editor, in those days, was looked upon 
largely as a luxury. The advertisers considered their 
displays as so much contribution to a public enterprise, 
and expected the genius who ran the paper to trade most 
of the account out at the "emporium." The subscribers 
were in the habit of paying in cordwood, vegetables and 
other products of the farm, when belonging to the out-of- 

[16o] 



town contingent, and by services, if a town dweller. The 
barber, or rather "tonsorial artist," paid his in shaves, 
the cobbler cobbled and the blacksmith forged, the doctor 
doctored and the drayman hauled. An occasional legal 
notice and the fellow who paid in cash because he couldn't 
think of a good excuse not to, together with most of the 
receipts from the job department of the print shop, helped 
to put some actual money into the hands of the proprietor. 
But it was not an exhorbitant amount, and the earnings of 
the postoffice had to be appealed to more than once to 
enable him to raise sufficient circulating medium to meet 
current expenses. He might trade advertising space and 
subscriptions for the things to eat and wear, but every 
month the " patent" people demanded settlement for the 
paper delivered and had to have cash, while the employes 
in the printing office looked for a certain percentage, at 
least, of their wages in real money. Getting this money 
together, gathering and writing the news, placating the 
offended or "standing pat" when such course was justi- 
fied, dodging or defending libel suits, attending all the 
public affairs in the village, drawing an occasional deed 
or mortgage or taking an acknowledgment as "notary 
public," besides keeping the postoffice running so that the 
public service should not be impeded, gave Clarke a some- 
what strenuous life. 

There was no question about his having an orignal way 
of looking at things and this originality crept into his 
writings. Once in awhile this tart dressing to his jour- 
nalistic pabulum was a trifle too strong of acid to be rel- 
ished by the party most concerned, and trouble resulted. 
Thus, a three-line item concerning the quality of ice- 
cream furnished at the "parlors" of Fred. Hallo well, 
irritated that personage. It was written in a joking 
strain, but there was just enough truth in the veiled sug- 
gestion that he was stinting the quality of it, to make 
him squirm. He knew that he was cheating his custom- 
ers, and he also was certain, from the item, that the 
editor was at least suspicious of the fact. Hallowell, in 
the old days, had been ring-leader of the "Never-Sweats," 

[166] 



a gang of roisterers whose principal occupation consisted 
in "jokes" which usually involved destruction of prop- 
erty and the stealing of inconsequential things, not of 
sufficient value to make the victims prosecute, but annoy- 
ing and aggravating. 

Ilallowell had gotten through his boyhood without much 
work, and the habit of laziness sat heavily upon him. He 
figured that a refreshment stand, with a little room in be- 
hind for a "social game," would come as near "no work" 
as he could hope for, and would allow him to be reckoned 
with as a business man. But his lack of industry and his 
dishonesty cropped out here. lie found that he could 
"short-change" his patrons in the quality of things served 
in the restaurant and did it. When the item appeared 
in the Chronicle he did not dare to show his feelings 
openly when joked about it, but prided himself on his 
ability to get even in another way. 

Calling to his aid a few old cronies he essayed, one night, 
to put the town donkey into the sanctum of the editor 
with suitable labels to demonstrate that he was in his 
rightful place and a fit substitute for the regular occu- 
pant. But the native stubborness of the beast, together 
with the narrowness of the doorway and stairs, com- 
pelled the abandonment of the undertaking after several 
hours of labor. By "grapevine telegraph" Clarke was 
apprised of the attempt and failure. This was meat for 
the pencil of the local newsgatherer, who enjoyed a joke 
on himself as well as on the other fellow. But in con- 
cluding his account he took occasion to remark that he 
could not understand why they had gone to all that trou- 
ble, "when a bigger jackass in the person of Fred Hallo- 
well could get through the doorway and up the stairs 
without difficulty." 

This shot went home and, with scarification and irrita- 
tion given by the laughing comments of the townspeople, 
caused Ilallowell to rise in his wrath and swear vengeance. 
Though a giant in size he was a coward by nature. He 
had bulldozed and tantalized smaller boys in his younger 
days, and by his size in later years had bluffed his way 

[167] 



more than once. But he was afraid of Clarke, for he had 
never been able to make the latter realize his greatness or 
forget the fact that he was a good-for-nothing loafer all 
his life. 

A few days afterwards Charlie Holmes came into the 
postoffice. He had been ill for some time and walked 
slowly and with difficulty. In response to the cheery 
greeting of the postmaster, after making sure there was no 
one in hearing distance he said : 

"Doc, they're plannin' to kill you." 

' ' Who 's planning to kill me, Charlie ? ' ' 

"Fred Hallo well and a big nigger." 

1 ' How do you know ? Tell me all about it. ' ' 

"Well, you know I've been sick, Doc. It was pleasant 
today, and I was lying on top of a pile of lumber down 
by the tracks when I heard Fred Hallowell promise to 
give a big nigger that's been 'round town some time fifty 
dollars if he 'd ' do you up, ' and he agreed to do it to-night. 
For God's sake, Doc, don't let 'em know I told you or 
they'd kill me." 

Bascom grasped the hand of the boy and said : 

"Thank you for coming to me, Charlie. I won't let 
any one know you told me and I'll take care of myself 
and them, too." 

Putting a gun in his pocket he left the postoffice and 
started first to find the negro. He was not long in locat- 
ing the burly black and walked up to him. 

"My name's Clarke. I'm the man Hallowell has hired 
you to 'do up.' Take a good look at me, so you'll know me 
next time you see me, for that will be in about a half an 
hour if you're not out of town by that time, and when 
you do see me I'll pump you so full of lead that they'll 
have to get a derrick to load you in the undertaker's 
wagon. Now go, and go quick. I'm a little nervous and 
I'm afraid I won't be able to wait the full half hour." 

The "nigger" took one look at his accuser, noticed that 
Clarke's right hand was toying close to his back pocket. 
Then he went up the track and out of town. He did not 
return. 

[168] 



The editor now hunted up Hallowell, whom he located 
in Dan White's hardware store. As he walked up to 
him it was like the contrast in size between David and 
Goliath. When Hallowell saw him he grew pale, for there 
was a glint in the eye of Bascom that he did not like. 

"So you're the man, are you," began Clarke, "who 
hasn't the courage to do his own dirty work, and has to 
hire a nigger to do his killing for him." 

Dan White carefully stepped over and closed the door. 
He knew Hallowell and his character. This promised to 
be something of an interesting episode, and it wasn't 
necessary to have any other witnesses. 

"I — I don't know what you mean," stammered Hallo- 
well. 

"Oh, yes you do, and so do I. You hired a big buck 
nigger to kill me, and have contracted to pay him fifty 
dollars for the job. That nigger is now making tracks for 
Indianapolis as fast as his dirty feet will carry him. 
You've been a cowardly sneak and a disgrace to the name 
of man ever since you struck this town, and now you 
would add murder to the list of crimes you have com- 
mitted. I ought to kill you now and here, defenseless 
and unwarned, as you planned to have me killed. But I 
won't do it. That would place me on a level with you 
and your nigger consort. I am going to give you the 
same chance I gave him. You have evidently determined 
that the town is too small for both of us. Very well, I 
accept the edict as you have laid it down. It's too bad for 
you that your hired assassin concluded to throw up the 
job. You'll have to do it yourself. But I'm here to tell 
you that, knowing you have threatened my life, and pre- 
pared to meet my Maker as I am, I'll manage to get in 
one or two shots at you myself while you are engaged in 
your occupation of ridding the town of me. If you are 
here in town I'll take it that you have determined that 
you are of more use to it than me. I have a feeling that 
the world would be better without you and hell dirtier 
and more contaminating with you. I don't relish the job 
of being the instrument of Providence which removes you 

[169] 



from this mundane sphere and adds to the population of 
the already overcrowded lake of brimstone. But I'll do 
my best not to leave a widow for the town to look after. 
So, when you're ready to carry out your threat I'll be 
waiting for you. I'll take no chances. Don't cross my 
path again, for if you do I will know that you've spurred 
your cowardly carcass to do your own murderous work 
and I'll shoot you on sight. That's all." 

He deliberately turned his back on Hallowell and walked 
the full length of the hardware store to the door and out 
onto the street without once looking behind, thus showing 
his contempt for his enemy and his confidence that he 
would not dare to attack him openly. Clarke was wrought 
up to a high pitch, so much that on his way home that 
night he nearly took a shot at Mike Northrup, one of his 
best friends, who was about the size of Hallowell, and 
who waited for the editor to come up. Northrup caught 
the gleam of the revolver and spoke in time. The 
thought that he might have killed his friend preyed upon 
Bascom heavily all night. 

Northrup was up town early the next morning and 
after a consultation Doctor Parker informed Hallowell 
that he must make his peace with Clarke immediately or 
leave town. Thoroughly frightened, he sought and ob- 
tained an interview with Clarke in which he begged for 
his forgiveness, and acknowledged his wrong. Quick to 
resent a wrong he was even more ready to forgive, and 
Hallowell was told that so far as the editor was concerned 
he had nothing to fear. But he urged the man to change 
his manner of living and be a credit to the community. 

"Fred," he concluded, "the devil never gives much 
credit to the man that serves him and your pay's darn 
small, but God rolls up a hundred dollars in money or 
satisfaction with every one you spend for Him. If I were 
you I'd give the old fork-tailed chap a wide berth and 
come out in the open. The people will forget all you've 
done to them and stand by you if you're square. I'll 
wipe the slate of this little affair which might have ended 
in a tragedy and do what I can to help you. But you've 

[170] 



got to do it yourself, so far as facing about is concerned. 
You never saw a grub that helped the corn to grow or a 
boll-weevil that had a crop of cotton to his credit. And 
you never saw a human parasite, or a hater of mankind 
that eventually garnered a harvest of happiness. I'll be 
for you if you're right and I'll be everlastingly against 
you if you're wrong." 
Hallowell promised reformation, but early dropped into 
his old ways, and with his gang soon took to making 
things unpleasant in the town. While ostensibly he had 
made his peace with Clarke the whole proceeding seemed 
to rankle in his heart, and throwing his good resolutions 
to the winds he started on a career of lawlessness. 

Finally, when he began dynamiting buildings, thus 
jeopardizing human life as well as destroying property, a 
self constituted vigilance committee, after becoming cer- 
tain of the author of the outrages, prepared to deal out to 
him summary punishment. Clarke, however, interceded 
and saved his life. He was warned to leave, however, and 
soon moved away. 

Some years afterwards, Gilbert Hamilton, of Thornton, 
who succeeded Clarke as editor of the Chronicle, wrote a 
postal card to the latter in his Wisconsin home. It read 
as follows : 

1 ' Fred Hallowell rode over the range last night. He had 
an altercation in the middle of the road with a man whom 
he threatened as he threatened you. Two shots were fired. 
Hallowell 's in hell now. Praise God from Whom all bless- 
ings flow." 



[171] 



CHAPTEE XXI. 

During all this time his leg, which had become infected 
in Arkansas, was giving Clarke more or less trouble, and 
no treatment given afforded more than temporary relief. 
Freeman Teeguarden, one of the proprietors of the drug 
store in which the postoffice was located, came to Bas- 
com one day. 

''Doc," he said, " there's a couple of spiritualist fellows 
in town who have been doin' some unexplainable things. 
Why don't you see 'em about that leg of yours?" 

"What good could they do ? All the doctors have taken 
a whack at it and you don't suppose these fellows could 
shoo it away, do you?" 

"I don't know as they could do anything, but there 
ain't no harm in tryin'. They can't hurt you any." 

"Well, I don't believe in any of that sort of stuff, and 
I know you don't because you don't believe in any kind 
of religion." 

"I know I ain't overly strong on religion, Doc, but 
these fellows are doing things I can't account for, and I 
wouldn't care what they called it if they was doin' good 
and helpin' folks. The proof of a man's religion is what 
it does for him, and what it makes him do for his fellows. 
You've said that to me yourself, many times, when you 
was arg'ing some of your Methodist doctrines. I've alius 
said to you that I don't know nothin' about it, and so I 
don't believe nothin' about it. That's all. But I've got 
respect for what the other fellow thinks, and I ain't goin' 
to destroy his faith just because I can't fathom the reason 
for it. I realize that you may do more harm by makin' a 
man doubt than you can sidin' in with him on his reli- 
gion, and you ain't never heard me tellin' a chap there 
wasn't nothin' in it when he was arg'in' religion. That's 
between himself and God. If a man's got religion I say 

[172] 



let him do somethin' with it 'sides sittin' back as though 
he was elected to glory and go on cheatin' and grindin' 
in business as though his religion didn't have nothin' to 
do with that." 

"Say, Freem, you'll be preaching a sermon next." 

"No, I'd make a mighty poor preacher, though some of 
'em ain't a bad lot if you c'n git down underneath their 
preacher coat and git at the man. They have a hard lot 
to my thinkin'. Their churches treat 'em most as if they 
was beggars, and begrudge every cent they git, and if 
they can't run 'em they hev to set there and wait with 
their ear in the air for the Lord to call them to another 
field. Sometimes, too, the Lord's call they hear to move 
somewhere else is mighty like the jingle of more money 
than they're gettin'." 

"The laborer is worthy his hire, you know, Freeman." 

"Oh, I ain't sayin' they oughtn't to git more money, 
and that they oughtn't to take more money when they can 
git it, but I don't want 'em to measure the quality of the 
Lord's voice by the size of the salary paid." 

"But, Freeman, these spiritualists or whatever they are 
charge money for their services, don't they?" 

"Gosh, I nearly forgot about those fellows. They don't 
charge. They take what you give 'em." 

"How'd you happen to get drawn into their perform- 
ance?" 

"Why, I know both of them, o' course. And you do, 
too. One is George Harbaugh, the harness maker, and the 
other is Harry Kingsbury. They ain't got any education, 
but they discovered that they was able to do funny things, 
and heard voices and such like. Somebody told them it 
was spirits, and they felt the call to go out and do things. 
Ain't they got just as much right to have a call from the 
A 'mighty as anyone else?" 

"Sure! Look at the fishermen and other fellows that 
became great teachers of goodness through the call of 
Christ." 

"Yes. Well, as I said, they had the call and started 
out. They go into some kind of a spell and God knows 

[173] 



where they get the stuff they chatter, I don't. Neither do 
I think the fellows can invent it, because it would take a 
smart man to hatch up a fraud in the things they're doin' 
and neither of them is more'n ordinary." 

"What is the language they use?" 

"They say it's Injun talk and maybe 'tis. I ain't long 
on languages. It may be Chinese for all I know, but I do 
know they're doin' some strange things, and if they can 
cure your leg what in thunder do you care what they are 
or claim to be?" 

"Oh, I wouldn't care what they called themselves, but I 
don't believe they can do it." 

"You don't have to believe. That's the funny part of 
it. All you got to do is to let 'em work on you. I'd like 
to see you with a well leg, Doc. I sure would, and I've 
taken' the liberty of talkin' with 'em about it." 

"You have! And what did they say?" 

"They said they didn't know what they could do till 
the spirits told 'em." 

"Do you expect me to believe that the spirits will come 
down to these fellows and show 'em how to cure a sore 
leg, especially on a cuss that hasn't any faith in them at 
all?" 

"I don't expect you to believe nothin'. Tain't like you 
was goin' to take a lot of medicine that might upset your 
innards, or they was goin' to put some stuff on your leg 
that might make you have to have it cut off afterwards. 
They just put out their hands and say their ' eeny-meeny- 
mony-mi-posca-lana-boni-stry, ' and the rest of it, and if 
it works you're 'it.' That's all there is to it." 

"They want to do it out in public, don't they?" 

"Why, yes. But everybody in town knows you've got a 
bad leg, don't they? If they do, what's the difference? 
If they don't help you it hurts them, don't it? They've 
got as many chances to take as you have, and if they do 
help you what do you care what people think? If they 
don't help you you can say, 'I told you so,' and that's all 
there'll be to it." 

[174] 



''You haven't gone proselyting for these spiritualists, 
have you, Freeman Teeguarden?" 

"I ain't proselytin' for nobody, but I'd like to see your 
leg cured." 

"All right, old man. I'll just go you. Tell them I'll be 
their victim, or subject, or whatever it is, if for no other 
reason than to demonstrate my appreciation of your 
thoughtfulness. But you're the last man I'd expect to go 
off on a religious tangent. It's worth the experiment just 
to see you interested in any kind of religion." 

"Don't joke about it, Doc. I know you ain't had much 
call to count me among the saints, but I don't believe 
there's a man livin' who doesn't, way down in his heart, 
think on these things, even if his thoughts along that line 
don't bubble up to the surface much. I don't know noth- 
in' about this spiritualism business, but what I see I can 
see, can't I? They can't fake your leg on me, can they? 
And they can't pretend to have helped it and not done 
it, with me here and helpin' you dress it as many times 
as I have? We'll see what they can do and then talk 
about belief and unbelief afterwards." 

When it came time, therefore, the postmaster-editor 
went on the table and the performance, — if that is the 
term — began. The two men no sooner laid hands on him 
that he felt as though he was in a fiery furnace. Great 
waves of heat ran up and down his body and centered in 
his affected limb. While they were in the midst of it the 
operators suddenly stopped, consulted for a moment in an 
unknown tongue, and one of them spoke : 

"Too much clothes on white man. Injun say stop till 
clothes are off. We go somewhere and take clothes off." 

So operations were suspended and Clarke, with a few 
of his intimate friends, went into the printing office. He 
stripped himself and they went at it again. There was no 
question that some peculiar phenomenon was being ex- 
perienced by him, and he could not doubt that there was 
some kind of change going on in the leg. When they had 
been working for some time, rapidly, vigorously, they 
ceased their efforts, returned apparently to their normal 

[175] 



condition and told the subject that they would continue 
their efforts on the morrow. This programme was re- 
peated daily for nearly a week, at the end of which time 
there rolled off from the leg a mass of diseased tissue, 
leaving it in a comparatively healthy condition. Asked 
for an explanation afterwards, Clarke said : 

1 ' I can 't explain. I am like the blind man in the Bible, 
who said, 'One thing I know: that whereas I was blind, 
now I see. ' One thing I know : whereas I had a bad leg, 
now it is better. I take it as coming from God, whatever 
the means of communication may have been. I have al- 
ways been in the habit of giving God the credit of any 
blessings that came to me, and I never put the burden of 
responsibility for misfortune on His shoulders. If, as 
these men believe, their peculiar power comes through 
spirits in direct contact with us through them, let it be so. 
I don't always stop to look at the name of the builder 
when I cross a bridge, but I none the less pay tribute to 
the excellence of his work when I venture without fear 
to use it. His name may not appear among those accepted 
by the self-constituted authorities on architecture, and 
they may even ridicule the possibility that anyone other 
than the elect could build a bridge. But it is there and 
we use it. I take it there may be some such condition in 
creeds. You and I may not have even heard of a belief 
and yet its follower may get close to God in his peculiar 
form of worship. I'm with Teeguarden: A man's reli- 
gion is entitled to be measured by what it does for him, 
and what it enables him and prompts him to do for his 
fellow man. When a man declares he has discovered the 
only creed by which a man can get to Heaven, and spends 
all his time criticising other beliefs instead of seeking how 
he can demonstrate the good effects of his religion on 
himself and his fellows, you may be sure that, though the 
road itself may be right, St. Peter won't give him much of 
a welcome when he reaches the end. I think about the 
first thing he'll ask is not 'What do you believe?' but, 
'What have you been doing?' " 

"I don't know how you feel about this thing, Doc," 

[17d] 



said Teeguarden, "But I ain't satisfied to stop here. If 
God's got any hand in this business I want to know it." 

"That's where you've been wrong all this time, Free- 
man. God has a hand in all good work, and you wouldn't 
acknowledge it. This ain't the only miracle the world has 
seen or will see. When Doc Parker studied and worked 
to learn his profession, and then when he saved the life 
of old man Beemis the other day it was a miracle, and 
God had a hand in it, working through Doc Parker. But 
he began working out the miracle a long time ago. When 
I came up here after losing all my folks, and was taken 
out of Old Man Smith's hands, and when I came into 
town, and finally got a chance to live and be somebody, 
I was working out a miracle." 

"Yes, but Doc, didn't you ever think that maybe your 
mother and grandmother and folks was watchin' you and 
helpin' you?" 

"Have you got so you believe in it, Freeman?" 

"I ain't sayin' how far I've got, but it looks as if I was 
gettin' there." 

"Well, peace be with you! That's all I can say." 

Teeguarden came to be one of the mainstays of the 
spiritualists in northern Indiana and his home was many 
times used for seances by those of that faith. Clarke, 
when he saw the earnestness with which his friend ac- 
cepted the belief, after the years that he had been apa- 
thetic on all religious questions, he forbore any suggestion 
or criticism. 

"I wonder," he said to himself, "I wonder what con- 
trolled those men when they were working on me?" 

And he never answered the question to his own satis- 
faction. 



U77] 



CHAPTER XXII. 

The probability is that the Jenkins family Bible would 
not give the name that way, but according to the chroni- 
cles of the village boys the particular Jenkins in whom 
they were interested bore the title Philander Philester 
Peter Sylvester George Washington Christopher Colum- 
bus H. Jenkins. This may have been due to the fact that 
he stammered so that when he pronounced his name it 
sounded something like the combination given. Of course 
the full name was seldom used except when Sylvester 
manifested a disposition to be vexed over its use, at which 
time his tormentors would recite it in chorus. It was said 
that there were only two occasions on which his impedi- 
ment was unnoticeable, namely, when he swore and when 
he prayed. At such time the strings on his tongue were 
loosened and the words would roll out in an undammed 
torrent. It is needless to say that with the knowledge of 
this peculiarity in possession of his fellows the opportuni- 
ties were frequently given for indulgence in straight talk 
by Jenkins, and it was usually the reverse of praying. 
Despite his limitation of speech, "Ves" succeeded in 
training himself as a ventriloquist, and discovered that his 
ventriloquial voice also came out unfettered. It was a 
great find for him, and he practiced diligently until he 
was master of the art. He entertained the young men 
of the town with private exhibitions of his skill at divers 
times, and his proficiency could not be gainsaid. 

At about the time of Bascom's advent into Colfax, one 
Aaron Weir descended upon the village. He was an ex- 
pert lather and could drive more nails than any man 
before or since his time. He would fill his mouth with 
lath nails and with one hand holding the hatchet and the 
other supplying ammunition, he would nail a hundred 
yards before the ordinary man would seemingly get ready 

[178] 



to hit the first nail. Because his name was Aaron he was 
dubbed "Moses," almost before he was sufficiently ac- 
quainted in the town to warrant such familiarity. Weir 
was the dude of the community. When not at work he 
dressed himself in a perfect fitting suit, blacked his shoes 
till they shone like mirrors, carefully oiled and combed his 
hair and topped it all with a silk hat. Shades of Chester- 
field ! Could the town stand for it? Well, it did, and 
Aaron proved not so bad a fellow. To be sure, he assumed 
the air of a much traveled man, and one wise to the vani- 
ties of the world, but he probably had a right to the as- 
sumption. He earned good wages, big money for those 
times, on account of his superior skill, and was a liberal 
spender. 

Aaron heard Jenkins in his ventriloquism and conceived 
the idea of putting it to profit. So the firm of Weir and 
Jenkins was organized for the show business with "Ves" 
for the principal performer and "Moses" as advance 
agent, publicity man, business manager and ring-master. 
"Peter Hunch" and "Judy," the puppets that were to 
move their jaws and wag their heads, simulating the con- 
versations which the ventriloquist was to furnish them, 
were brought from Chicago, and "Ves" put in all his 
spare time and some more getting the swing of the lingo. 

The "Society of Uplift" in Colfax decided that as the 
show originated in the village the local people ought to 
have the opportunity to enjoy the performance before it 
went out to take its place w T ith the amusement enterprises 
of the world. By a little persuasion Weir and Jenkins 
consented to the arrangement, especially when it was an- 
nounced to them that the trustees of the school district 
agreed to permit the use of the school house free for the 
exhibition, a concession wrested from them by Clarke and 
his compatriots of the "Uplifters" on the representation 
that they would help advertise the town. 

Had the two individuals most interested realized the 
evening in store for them, they doubtless would have 
dodged, even with the offer of a free show room, and gone 
elsewhere to begin their career. But, believing implicitly 

[179] 



in the merit of the performance to be given they tried to 
act as though they had been in the business all their lives. 
Aaron, with an extra touch of wax on his mustache, and 
arrayed in his " Sunday-go-to-meetin 's, " walked with im- 
pressive dignity up and down the streets making the 
necessary arrangements for the show. "Ves," with a 
newly acquired swagger, posed at different places in the 
village that the wondering eyes of the public might behold 
him ere he departed to rise to that place where Lawrence 
Barrett and P. T. Barnum would crave his acquaintance. 

If the Biblical saying, "A prophet is not without honor 
save in his own country, ' ' was not proven on the night of 
the entertainment, it never will be. All the male portion 
of the town was there, and nothing but standing room was 
to be had by the late comers. Through sundry quiet hints 
the feminine Colfaxites had concluded to remain at home. 
Aaron, as master of ceremonies, introduced "Professor" 
Jenkins, the "world renowned ventriloquist, whose mar- 
velous ability to throw his voice from place to place would 
challenge the admiration of all." He congratulated the 
"city" of Colfax on having "produced such a genius," 
and prophesied that he would astonish this country and 
wrest glory from the old world. 

"Professor" Jenkins appeared and was greeted with a 
long continued outburst of applause. The puppets were 
placed in position and the show began. Getting the range 
the sound came as of the bleating of sheep in the dis- 
tance, and then a voice broke in with "Here, Bull ! Here, 
Bull!" 

Somebody in the audience responded with a well simu- 
lated "Bow-wow-wow-gr-r-r-r-r-r" of a dog. The "Pro- 
fessor" was disconcerted and mad at the interruption, and 
he took occasion to let loose a chain of "cuss words" not 
in the long practiced programme. Dog-howls and sheep 
bleats responded from all parts of the house. 

Little Sammy Jenkins, a brother of the performer, 
had insisted on having a seat on the stage that the people 
might know that he was a blood relative of the performer. 
Fearing that his brother's speech might fail him in a 

[180] 



situation so desperate he demonstrated his early and 
complete education in the art of picturesque epithets. 
Jenkins pulled a horse pistol that looked like the entrance 
to the tunnel under East River, and declared his readiness 
to use the same if the disturbance did not stop. This had 
the effect of quieting the house for a few minutes and 
the performance proceeded. 

"Peter Hunch" had just commenced his altercation 
with his wife, "Judy," when Peter laughed. Amidst the 
applause, which accompanied everything done or said on 
the stage, a shower of oyster cans and vegetables fell 
around "Professor" Jenkins, but with it was a bouquet 
of artificial flowers, obtained from the village milliner 
for the occasion. Here was the tribute of the local popu- 
lace to his accomplishment, and with a low bow Jenkins 
stepped forward to receive it. But the rubber string 
attached to it got into action at this time and the bouquet 
sailed over the heads of the audience to the back part 
of the room. 

Sammy found a corn knife and threatened 'Squire Park, 
the village factotum, for neglect of duty. The 'Squire 
commanded peace, but the virgin dove was evidently 
roosting with clipped wings at some distance from the 
school house. "Mose," who had been attending to the 
work of checking up the cash, appeared at about this 
time, to reinforce his beleagured partner, and by persua- 
sion, argument and threats they finished the entertain- 
ment. The entire audience offered to escort "Ves" home 
after the show, but he held them all off by indiscriminate 
flourishing of the old pistol, taking time, however, to 
remark : 

"The d-d-dif-ference b-b-between m-me and you f-f-fel- 
lel-lows is that I'm a f-f-f-fool for m-m-money, and 
y-y-you're a s-s-set of damned f-f-f -fools for n-n-nothing, 
and y-y-you ain't g-g-got you're m-m-money 's w-w-w-orth. 
I'm taking along f-f-f-forty dollars and over of y-y-y-your 
money, and y-y-you ain't e-e-even had a g-g-good time." 

"The trouble was," remarked Bascom Clarke to him, in 
an attempt to smooth his ruffled spirit, "the trouble was 

[181] 



you made too quick a change from 'Ves' Jenkins to 
'Professor' Jenkins for the dull minds of the town folks 
to appreciate it. You should 'a' gone away and stayed 
long enough for the people to forget you, then come and 
rung the front door bell of the village after havin' licked 
the world into eatin' out of your hand, and they'd worship 
you as a little tin god. If you try to make good in a new 
fangled way in your home town you are bound to be 
hazed. But forty dollars worth of shinplasters ought to 
be mighty good healin' for a damaged 'artistic tempera- 
ment,' if that's what you call it. Tell you what, 'Ves,' 
while they've heaped a pile of ridicule on you, and threw 
a few bits of offensive bric-a-brac, deep down in their 
gizzards they're admirin' your pluck and wishing they 
could do the turn half as well. More'n fifty per cent of 
the clubs a feller 's hit with are envy, anyhow. ' ' 

"B-b-b-but it's darn h-h-hard, Doc, to work 1-1-1-like the 
old H-h-h-h-h-harry to g-g-g-et up something g-g-good and 
be t-t-t-treated like a d-d-dog," protested the professor. 

"That's because the show was all right, 'Ves.' If you 
wasn't doin' all right they'd a just pitied you and went 
home without saying anything. Nobody threw any stones 
at St. Stephen till he was makin' good." 

"And y-y-you think I-I-I-I was m-m-m-makin' good?" 

"You sure were, 'Ves.' And I'm probably responsible 
for the whole row. "We fellows that knew you best 
planned to have a little fun, like the bouquet stunt and 
things like that, and it turned into a riot. It just goes 
to show that you'd better not start a fire in the open un- 
less the children are herded." 

With his injured feelings relieved by this lingual oil 
applied by "Doc" Clarke, "Professor" Jenkins departed 
for home with his dignity and calm restored. 

But his troubles were not at an end, for he had yet to go 
through the fiery furnace of matrimony. Having been an 
enthusiastic participant himself in more than one chariv- 
ari party he knew what to expect, and so when he con- 
templated entering the marital state he did not presume 
on immunity from a "serenade." 

[182] 



From Jenkins' actions more than from his words his 
girl up the country gathered that he wanted to marry 
her. At the end of his choking, gasping, spluttering 
speech in which he conveyed, or sought to convey, his 
suggested nuptial arrangement, and after she had said, 
"Oh, Ves, this is so sudden," and cried a little on his 
shirt front, it was noticed that he seemed to have con- 
siderable more exhuberance of spirit than before. He 
greased his boots with more care and greater frequency, 
wore his ancient "stove-pipe" hat on the side of his head, 
tilted his Wheeling stogie in the side of his mouth at an 
angle of forty-five degrees, and drove his mule through 
the streets of the town with an air of supreme importance. 
As the girl lived some distance up the country the news 
of his courtship had not reached town, though his fre- 
quent absences from the village on Sundays ought to have 
raised suspicion. However, his conduct was so indicative 
of his frame of mind that on the general symptoms he 
was finally charged with contemplating matrimony. With 
much surprise he asked: 

"H-h-h-how'd you g-g-g-guess it?" 

The wedding day arrived, and at 7 o'clock in the even- 
ing 'Squire Park pronounced the words which made the 
twain man and wife. As was the custom everybody pres- 
ent was privileged to kiss the bride, and in the confusion 
it was some time before Jenkins discovered that the pro- 
cession was an endless chain and that the young swains 
of the village were then on their fourth round of oscilla- 
tory greetings. Here is where he balked and the line 
was broken. As the boys departed they took occasion to 
advise Ves that they would see him later. 

"No, you w-w-w-won't. T-t-t-there ain't no use of 
y-y-y-your trying the 'shiveree' game on us. It's n-n-n-no 
go." 

It was like an invitation to come and make the night 
hideous, and preparations were made accordingly. A 
"horse-fiddle" was constructed. A "horse-fiddle" or 
"dumb-bull" is made by taking a dry-goods box of ample 
dimensions, boring an auger-hole in opposite sides, 

[183] 



through which a well rosined raw-hide is drawn. The re- 
sultant sound would do credit to the demoniacal groans 
of the inhabitants of Hades. This, with some tin horns, 
half a dozen farm bells borrowed from the hardware 
store, a bass-drum, cow-bells and a number of double- 
barrelled shot guns made up the outfit of noise producers. 
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, Junior, were temporarily quartered 
in the log home of Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, Senior, whither 
the party proceeded. The ball opened with a volley from 
the guns, followed by a general fusilade of incongruous 
sound, supported by the bass-drum and grunts of the 
"horse-fiddle." 

"Pa" Jenkins came out and ordered them all off the 
premises, at the same time letting loose two savage dogs 
with a "Sic 'em!" to stimulate their attack. A volley 
from the shot guns and a yell from the attacking party 
caused the dogs to lose heart. They turned tail and ran. 
Still the besieged party held out. The din was renewed. 
Mother Jenkins, with a fire poker charged the tormentors 
single-handed, and they retired to a safe distance until 
she returned to the house, when the attack was renewed 
with redoubled vigor. 

The house still refused to capitulate, although all well 
knew the terms by which they could secure peace. It was 
the unwritten law that any kind of treat given would re- 
sult in immediate cessation of hostilities. Having failed 
by the ordinary methods to secure a reduction of the fort- 
ress, the extreme measures were resorted to, which con- 
sisted in hoisting a fellow to the roof, armed with a big 
gunnysack. This he proceeded to stuff into the top of 
the chimney and the smoke from the fire poured into the 
house. The doors were opened and the windows, but there 
was no living in the atmosphere. Mother Jenkins, at the 
earnest solicitation of the bride and groom, brought out 
a half-bushel of grindstone apples, and Ves escorted the 
party to the village for further refreshments. The plug 
was removed from the chimney and quietness reigned. 
When young Jenkins arrived back home he found a fifty 
dollar bedroom suite as a present from the boys. It had 

[184] 



been brought in and set up during his absence. He looked 
at it in surprised pleasure, then turned to his late tor- 
mentors and said : 

"Durn your f-f-f-fool souls. Y-y-y-you always end up 
a-a-a-all right. I g-g-guess you're t-t-t-tryin' to imitate 
the A-a-almighty, where the Bible says, 'Whom the L-lord 
1-1-loveth he c-c-c-c-chaseneth." 



[185] 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

It was four years after his arrival in Colfax before 
Clarke was able to get any information from his people 
in the south or let them know he was alive. He mailed 
letter after letter, composed at great trouble, owing to his 
meager education, and addressed them to Mt. Adams, 
Crockett's Bluff and other places where he thought they 
might be found. This was before the reconstruction and 
re-establishment of postofnces in any but the most im- 
portant places. Finally, a letter addressed to his brother 
at Crockett's Bluff attracted the attention of the post- 
master, who, seeing the postmark of an Indiana town, and 
recalling the fact that the refugee boy had gone north on 
a transport with Indiana troops, made the delivery of the 
letter possible. 

And thus, like a voice from the grave, there came to 
them the knowledge that Bascom lived. They had given 
him up as lost to them forever. A letter was sent to him 
urging him to come back, and when he received it his 
heart strings were pulled in the direction of the old home. 
But he could see no hope of a future there, and made up 
his mind to fight out the battle in the place where Cod 
had planted his feet at the end of the long journey of 
misfortune and privation. His brother had served in the 
Confederate army, and afterwards died from diseases con- 
tracted during the struggle. His sisters married and were 
busy with their homes and families. Though he kept in 
constant correspondence with them he was not privileged 
to see them until fourteen years after he had left 
Arkansas. 

With his wife and little boy he then accompanied the 
Indiana Editorial Association on its annual junket, which 
included Arkansas. He left the party at Little Rock and 
went down the White River to his people. No pen is 

[186] 



needed to record that reunion. The conjuring forces of 
the imagination can paint the picture better than it can 
be described, as the sisters, weeping with happiness, 
clasped their arms around his neck and looked into his 
eyes. 

When he told his story and showed how he had found 
friends in his new home, and how he had been enabled 
to make a place for himself, he said : 

"I went up there, hating the north and despising the 
people as cruel monsters, for so the picture had been 
painted to me as a boy. I found a flowing bowl of love 
and kindness. I was taken up there practically a slave 
in the hands of a cruel southerner. I was freed and given 
a home by one of the ' monsters' who had been putting in 
his best licks helping to save the Union. Women, the 
mothers and wives of these hated people, were mothers to 
me, and in the hours of my desolation gave me that sweet 
sympathy which made it possible to bear my burdens. 
Men, who were derided, scoffed at and ridiculed by my 
people of the south, gave me their hands and their friend- 
ship, and never once have I heard them refer to me or 
my people as not entitled to the utmost consideration. 
Talk about 'southern hospitality,' I'll match you act for 
act, person for person, unselfishness for unselfishness with 
my friends in the north. Maybe God transplanted me that 
I might come back and testify to the fact that we are one 
people." 

"But, Bascom, don't talk politics down here. The peo- 
ple are smarting over the results of the war, and there is 
much bitterness yet." 

Thus spoke one sister, fearful that an avalanche of 
his enthusiastic sentiment might cause trouble. 

"Don't you worry, Lucy. I'm here to visit friends, 
not to talk politics, but if any one shall ask me for in- 
formation concerning the feeling in the north I shall tell 
them the truth. How else are they to be advised? Com* 
plete peace will never come until these people north and 
south get to know each other better. If I should come 
south and keep my mouth shut as to the character of the 

[187] 



people who gave me their friendship, I should be disloyal 
to them and to the honored name I bear. No Clarke was 
ever afraid to speak the truth or defend a friend. The 
northern people have been my friends and proved their 
right to the title. Why should I be dishonest with myself 
or my people by remainng silent as to their virtues ? The 
men in the south who fought the battles of the Confeder- 
acy don't want me to. The fellows, on either side of the 
conflict, who did the fighting won't cause much trouble. 
The mouth-fighters, the 'bread and butter soldiers,' are 
having their time now and I understand the Ku-Klux still 
exists. These people belong to the same gang as the 
Knights of the Golden Circle in the north, commonly 
called "Copperheads," whose business it was to stab the 
fighting men in the back. Both these kinds of people are 
not worthy of consideration and ought to be shaken up in 
a common pot and boiled in carbolic acid to prevent their 
contaminating decent society, and then dumped in the 
garbage heap." 

And he went freely about among his old neighbors, 
those who scarcely remembered him as a boy, but who 
knew the family and were cognizant of its former status. 

"What do they think about the war up there?" asked 
Captain Halla, an old friend of his father. 

"Why, you seldom hear anything about it. The war's 
over in the north." 

"I suppose they'd make it pretty hot for a southe'ner, 
if he ventured up thah." 

"Hot for him! Why, man, I told you that the war's 
over up there, and they don't make any distinction be- 
tween northerner and southerner. I ought to know, for 
I'm a southerner and I've lived among 'em for fourteen 
years." 

"Yes, but you was young and didn't have no hand in 
the fight." 

"Well, take Jim Dykes, then. Jim surely could be 
charged with fighting them, for he was taken prisoner in 
a battle and was kept at Fort Delaware till freed after the 
war ended. He didn't come south again, but stayed there 

[188] 



and hired out as a farm hand. It is true that some of the 
non-combatants at first called him a "rebel," but the 
people themselves hushed 'em up mighty quick, and 
treated him right. He married one of Old Man Smith's 
daughters — the family I went north with, remember — 
and did well. He and his family were honored in the 
community. I could name you hundreds of others. And 
I know of Union men who have made their homes in the 
south and who are respected and contented. Men hunt- 
ing for trouble can find it on either side of Mason & 
Dixon's line, but an American who totes square will find 
a welcome anywhere in any section of the Union 

"By the way," continued Clarke, "Old Man Smith 
came back to Arkansas after the war was over. What 
became of him?" 

"Oh. he hung around here awhile damning the Yankees 
and telling blood-curdling stories of their treatment of 
him, and finally died. They buried him up the country 
somewhere, and I don't believe anybody could find the 
grave if they wanted to." 

"Well, there's a fair sample, Captain. Smith was taken 
up north because he represented himself to be a Union 
man pestered and threatened by the southerners. This 
government he spent so much time and energy damning 
gave him free transportation and rations to a place of 
safety. The people up there gave him work and helped 
him, only to be rewarded by his disloyalty. He consorted 
with the 'Copperheads' and abused those who had be- 
friended him. His family was different. The girls and 
the boys found themselves homes, and the sons-in-law 
were industrious, hard-working men. The old man's 
characteristics were not approved by them, neither did 
they believe his treatment of me was right. I don't hold 
up anything against him, notwithstanding he led me a 
pretty tough life, but he did the same with his own family, 
and we'll let it go as his way. The girls, and especially 
the oldest one, Tiney, were good to me in their way and 
the boys accepted me as one of themselves. The old man 
was stubborn, and his life as a slave driver in North 

[189] 



Carolina hadn't helped him to a genial disposition. He 
drove his own family in much the same manner as he 
drove the blacks. But I can't forget the fact that it was 
he who made it possible for me to get north and ' find my- 
self,' as the saying is. I've forgotten his roughness and 
abuse because of that one act." 

"I've been watching your language, boy, and you-all 
don't talk like a southe'ner. I guess the weanin' process 
was pretty complete." 

"If I've changed it's through no attempt on the part 
of the people up there to make me change. They haven't 
poked fun at me, nor thrown my style of talk at me. I 
guess I've just absorbed it. I've studied and worked to 
make something out of myself that would be a credit to 
my people. I had a good father and mother, as you well 
know, and the great regret in my home-coming is the fact 
of the graves over there on the hill. I wish I could see 
and talk to my mother, that she might know that I have 
been true to the teachings she and father gave me in my 
boyhood." 

"They were good people, boy, and your father was my 
best friend." 

"I'm glad to hear you say it, sir, and you may rest 
assured a friend of my father is a friend of mine." 

Thus he went, visiting the old scenes and talking with 
the people, fearlessly discussing the war and its results, 
and spreading the gospel of a re-united nation of one 
people under one flag. When he left he received evi- 
dences of good will and a hearty God-speed. 

He missed his brother Will, for he had wanted to dis- 
cuss with him the new relationship between the north 
and the south. The brother had gone to his reward with 
the feeling that the south was eternally right and the 
north eternally wrong. He had refused to come north 
on a visit to his brother, and the tone of his letter had 
indicated that he at least was un-reconstructed. The 
bitterness of defeat was in his soul, and he refused to be 
reconciled. He had refused to go north, and Bascom 
was too poor to come south, and they had never had the 

[1S>0] 



opportunity to talk it over, brother to brother. This 
shadow was perpetually on him during his stay. 

"Poor Will," Bascom said to his sister Mary. "He 
didn't have a chance to realize what the north had done 
for me, or he would have felt differently. Gratitude would 
have welled up in his heart, for whatever was done for me 
was done for him. He never knew how I worshipped him 
as my big brother, and I never had the opportunity to 
tell him." 

"Oh, yes, he knew," responded the sister. "He wanted 
to see you-all befo' he died, and he talked about you con- 
tinually after we got that letter from you. But he just 
couldn't bring hi 'self to make the journey. I think he 
would have buried his pride and gone, afterwards, but 
his health was such that he dare not undertake it. He 
was broken down and discouraged with the wreck of 
things in the south, and he hadn't the strength to take up 
the ha'd fight which would be necessary to build anew. 
You couldn't be here to know and realize what we had 
to go through. The war had ruined us, and we hadn't 
anything to begin life with again. The niggers were 
arrogant and independent, and practically useless from 
the standpoint of labor. They rode over us all, and made 
it well-nigh unendurable. The plantations were neglected 
or at best poo'ly cultivated. There was no money, except 
the worthless Confederate scrip. Wretchedness was on 
every hand. The sick and crippled soldiers of the Con- 
federacy had no one to take care of them except their 
neighbors and friends. There was no powerful govern- 
ment to put them in hospitals or give them a pension. 
The state treasury was empty. All had been spent on a 
lost cause. I tell you, Bascom, you don't know what it 
is to have staked your last dollar on what you believed 
to be your bounden duty, and then have to view the 
wreckage of your hopes with an empty pocket. If the 
no'thern people have one ounce of pity, just a glimpse 
at our sufferings would touch them. We're placed in the 
hands of an ignorant, incapable race, and we are asked 
to submit in patience to the outrages they perpetrate. 

[191] 



No no'therner would stand for it any more than a southe'- 
ner, if the conditions were reversed. I thank God you 
were out of it all. It was the answer to my prayers for 
your safety, night after night, when I did not know where 
you were. It was the only comfort I had. I could go 
to God and tell Him my troubles, and He comforted me, 
or I couldn't have stood it." 

"You have been a loyal sister to me, Mollie, and God 
has been good to me. Your prayers have been answered, 
or I wouldn't be here with you. You have been through 
your Gethsemane and you are still here. The message of 
confidence I have brought to the stricken south, from the 
victors, has been delivered, and I'll return with a prayer 
for patience and consideration on the part of the north 
toward my people, the vanquished. Let us hope that the 
time will come when both sections will know each other 
better." 

"You won't always stay away from us, will you, 
brother?" 

"No, I'm the head of the Clarke clan, you know, by 
direct line of succession, and it wouldn't do for me to 
neglect my people, would it?" he answered, playfully. 

"Yes, thank God, you're a Clarke," she answered. 



[102] 




Note. "Mother" Noble \\;is 92 yens old al the time this plcti 
taken, in 1911, a year before her death. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

"Say, boys, it's about time Doc Clarke reported on the 
state of the Union, ain't it? He's been down among the 
Johnnies in Arkansaw, and ought to have first hand in- 
formation." 

Thus Dan White opened the meeting of the town phil- 
osophers' club in the drug store, a short time after the 
postmaster's return. 

"He don't know nothin' about the state of the Union," 
said Dave Ball. "He went down to put some flowers on 
Old Man Smith's grave." 

When the laughter had subsided, following this ob- 
servation, Freeman Teguarden spoke up : 

"Naw, you fellers don't know him. He went down to 
show the baby to his folks. They ain't no man '11 travel 
further or endure more than the man with his first baby 
what his folks haven't seen. We've heerd everythin' 
about that baby, from the length o' time the doctor was 
to his house when it was born to the last dido it cut up, 
and he began to see that his audience was losin' inter- 
est." 

"W-w-w-well, a f-f-fel-1-ler that ain't g-g-got any 
p-p-p-pride in his c-c-c-child-d-dren oughtn't t-t-t-t-to 
h-h-have any," said "Ves" Jenkins. 

"There speaks the fond parent," observed Doctor Park- 
er. "He's got one up to his house, you know." 

"Know!" ejaculated 'Squire Parks. "Know! Ves was 
in my hotel tellin' about it before they got the kid 
washed." 

"They tell me," said Clarke, addressing himself to the 
'Squire, "They tell me the town marshal had to hold you 
to keep you from ringing the school bell like there was a 
fire when your first baby was born." 
13 [193] 



A roar of laughter greeted this unexpected shot, and 
Parks laughed as heartily as any of the others. 

' ' Well, I suppose I was as big a darn fool as any of the 
others. "When the woman you love goes up the shore of the 
dark river and conies back to you with your own baby 
in her arms a man ain't to blame for indulgin' in a little 
celebration." 

"Yes, but from the way he carries on you wouldn't 
think he gave his wife much credit. He goes around with 
his head up in the air as if sayin': 'See what I've 
done!' " chimed in "Bob" Clark. 

Just then there came an interruption. A young, slim, 
boyish looking fellow rushed in, in evident excitement. It 
proved to be Henry Eaines, son-in-law to Benedict Moore, 
the saloon-keeper. 

1 ' I want the marshal ! " he exclaimed. 

"What's up?" asked the postmaster. 

"Old Moore's got my wife and baby locked up over to 
his house and won't let them out." 

Several of the men sprang to their feet with a declara- 
tion that they'd make short work of the rascal, but they 
were stayed by cooler heads. They located Perry Rowdy- 
house, the marshal, and hastily summoned him. 

' ' Tell us about it, ' ' said Perry, ' ' so we can get the right 
of it." 

"Moore was married before and his first wife was a 
good woman, too good for the likes of him. They had a 
girl baby, and in spite of Moore's dirty ways the mother 
brought the girl up right. There ain't no better woman 
in the world than my wife. After the girl's mother died 
Moore married this helion, and they wan't never no peace 
for her arter that. They ain't either one on 'em fitten 
to have the care of a pig, to say nothin' of a sweet little 
girl. They certainly didn't set no example fer her to go 
by, but her mother's teachin's and examples stuck by her, 
and she came through true and clean. I got her away 
from 'em and married her. They made a racket about it, 
but they couldn't do nothin'. Then the baby came, and 
they got cute. They began to give my wife soft stuff and 

[194] 



told her they wanted to do somethin' for the. baby, and 
got the girl to go over there with their mush talk. Soon 
as ever they got her there they locked the door on her 
and the baby, and won't let her come out to me, or me go 
to see 'em. I've gone up there and demanded that they 
let her out, and they've only laughed at me and cussed me 
for my pains. They told me to keep off the premises or 
they'd shoot me for trespass. I ain't af eared o' their 
shootin' me, and I'd fight the two of 'em, if I wasn't 
afraid they'd kill the girl and the baby, and the girl ain't 
in no condition yet to stand a row. They must be some 
way fer me to git the girl and the baby, and I thought 
the marshal could help me." 

"We'll all help," declared the postmaster. "I'll go 
over with you and help you get 'em." 

"You bet! We all will." 

"Now," said the marshal, "Let's not get hotheaded. 
When I was in the army we never got nowhere without 
lookin' the situation over. If there's any shootin' to be 
done at anybody it's my business to be shot at. That's 
what I'm hired for. The first thing we want is the papers, 
and the 'Squire can get them out right away, and we'll 
go up there in the name of the law. If you fellers want 
to come along we'll swear ye in. You, Doc, I want, 'cause 
somebody's got to help the kid take care of the girl and 
the baby, anyway. When I was in the war we always 
looked out for the wimmen and children, and we'll look 
out for 'em proper this time." 

"Don't stop to parley too long with the brute, Perry," 
said Bascom. "He ain't worth bandying language with." 

' ' Wo won't talk any longer than's necessary, Doc, but 
we don't want to have to kill the pup till we have to, 
even if we think the community would be able to part 
with him without cavin' in its moral standin'." 

"All right, Perry, you talk to him, and while you're 
talkin' I'll draw a bead on him to prepare for emergen- 
cies. Then we'll know there won't be any bloodshed 
that'll worry anybody. Don't you worry a second, old 
man. and you won't have to look around to see if I'm 

[195] 



here. When it comes to fightin' fer the women and chil- 
dren the Johnnie will be in hailing distance of the Yank 
all the time." 

When the 'Squire made out the proper papers the mar- 
shal went up to the house backed by a small army. Right 
by the side of the marshal was Clarke and the aggrieved 
husband, who refused to stay in the background. 

"If anybody's to get hurt in this thing I'm the feller 
that the hurtin' belongs to by right," he said. 

"There isn't anybody going to get hurt," said Bascom, 
reassuringly. "The best way to prevent it is to prevent 
it. And I don't believe Moore will care about taking a 
look at the other side of the river just this minute, and 
he's the only one in danger of getting hurt, or Bob Crock- 
ett didn't teach me to shoot." 

"What's all this row about?" demanded Moore, ap- 
pearing in answer to the marshal's summons. 

"I have a writ here requiring you to deliver over to 
me this instant this boy's wife and baby," said Perry. 

"You go to hell!" answered the obstinate brute. 

"I ain't got time to talk, Dick, and this writ says 
'forthwith.' That means that the state of Indiana wants 
it done now, so you'd better not stand on the order of 
your goin', but produce the folks called for right now." 

"You'll not get 'em, and you'll get off my premises. 
I'll shoot the first man who crosses this threshold." 

"No you won't, Dick," chimed in Clarke. "I've got 
you covered now as deputy marshal, and the first false 
move you make I'll pull the trigger. Go ahead, Perry!" 

"Drop that gun and throw up your hands!" said the 
marshal. 

For just an instant Moore looked at the situation and 
then surrendered. The marshal put the irons on him 
and Clarke, followed by the husband, pushed up the 
stairs. The old woman was on guard there, brandishing 
a revolver and hurling vile language at the invaders. 
Before she had a chance to use the weapon she was dis- 
armed and turned over to the marshal, who had by this 
time reached the upper landing. She bit, kicked and 

[196] 



scratched with all the abandon of a woman of her kind, 
but was finally subdued. On her refusal to give up the 
key to the room in which the wife was locked, Clarke, 
with a few well-directed applications of his boot, kicked 
it in. He and the husband then carried the girl and her 
baby out past the sullen, defeated abductors, whence they 
were taken to their home. In the happiness of their re- 
union they begged the officer to release the couple and 
not prosecute them further. Perry, therefore, after pos- 
sessing himself of the revolvers, took off the handcuffs. 

"This isn't the end of this," declared Moore, as he 
rubbed his wrists where the irons had chafed him. 

"No," said Doctor Parker, sententiously, "it's not the 
end. We have the goods on you, now, and unless you 
and that woman get out of this town your case will go to 
the next grand jury for abduction, and we'll see that 
you both spend a fair share of your life where the dogs 
won't bite you. So, make up your minds to get out. 
You'll be watched night and day from this time on till 
you go, and the first false move will cost you dearly. I'm 
speaking by the card, Moore, and you'd better take my 
advice and leave right soon. It'll be healthier for you 
somewhere else." 

The philosophers' club returned to the postoffice, minus 
Rowdyhouse, who had the matter of some torn clothes 
and scratches to attend to. 

"Let's see, where did we leave off," said Clarke. "We 
were paying tribute to wives, weren't we?" 

"Some wives," said Sam Sering. 

"Most wives," interposed Dan White. 

"Oh, don't let's count that Moore woman at all," said 
the postmaster. "She's an exception and just what you'd 
expect to find with such a man as Moore." 

"But his first wife was all right, wasn't she?" said 
Teeguarden. 

"Yes, and Bill may have been all right when he mar- 
ried her, so far as she could see. He was putting his best 
front to her, and it might have been a decent looking out- 
side. I guess most of the women find the husbands aren't 

[197] 



the fellows they thought they married. Take Mrs. Clarke, 
for instance: she didn't realize how much of 'worse' 
it might be when she took me for better or for worse, 
but she's been too proud to admit to anybody but herself 
that she'd made a mistake. So she tolerates me around." 

" She's been the makin' of you, Doc," said Bob Clark. 
"Lots of us didn't know but she was makin' a mistake 
when she hitched up with you, much as we liked you. ' ' 

"Say, it did take some nerve for a woman to consent 
to share my five dollars a week and no prospects, didn't 
it? But I haven't heard her complain about it yet, and I 
sure have been happy. It was worth all I went through 
to get her. I've noticed that God usually makes up to 
you for the sufferin' the devil puts you to, and his 
Satanic Majesty certainly did have me on the hip for a 
time, if he was responsible for the things that came my 
way. ' ' 

"Don't forget," said Teeguarden, "that your mother 
was probably watching you all the time." 

"Yes, I know what you believe, Freeman," said Bas- 
com. "And if she were watching me she must have been 
with me when I stood by her grave the other day down 
in Arkansas, with my wife and my baby. I knelt down 
there and cried to her. I couldn't help it. I'd done it if 
the whole world was there. She had a hard, hard path- 
way in life and I wasn't old enough to realize it until she 
was dead and it was too late. I wanted her to see my 
wife and my baby boy." 

"She's probably been granted that privilege long be- 
fore this," said Teeguarden, firm in his spiritualistic be- 
lief. 

"Whether she has or not I don't know, but I'm trying 
to be as good to my wife as my father was to his. I can 
just begin to understand now what a man and woman 
they were. It doesn't do any good to speculate on what 
might have been. But I would have liked to see them live 
to a ripe old age like Grandfather and Grandmother." 

"If they had you wouldn't be here," said Bob Clark. 

[198] 



"God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to per- 
form," concluded Bascom. 

Captain Waugh came through the door just at this time, 
and after acknowledging the greetings, turned to Clarke. 

"Well, son," he asked, "Did you get your money's 
worth on the trip?" 

"Considering that it didn't cost me much it wouldn't 
take much to reimburse me so far as that is concerned," 
responded the postmaster. "But I got what money won't 
buy, a loving greeting from my people. You can't buy 
folks, Captain, and to put my arms around my sisters 
and look into their faces after all these years was worth 
walking all the way. Thanks to the "editorial courte- 
sies" extended by the railroad companies I didn't have 
to walk, however, and the trip did me a world of good." 

"You didn't want to stay, eh?" 

"No ! From my manner of coming up here it looked as 
if the Lord didn't intend me to cast my lot down there, 
and I think I'll follow the lead given me. You'll have to 
put up with me awhile longer, I guess." 

"How'd you manage to reconcile them to your northern 
ideas?" 

"I didn't try to reconcile them in the way you mean. 
They know I love the south and its people — that it's my 
homeland and my people. So I talked to them as brother 
to brother in reason, and they listened, better probably 
than they would have listened to a Northerner. But they 
have their problems, and it wrung my heart to realize 
what they have gone through. It was a wicked, un- 
necessary war, Captain, and the innocent ones carried 
most of its burdens. They haven't recovered from the 
shock or the humiliation of defeat, 3 T et, and they won't 
for a long time to come. Many mistakes were made in 
the reconstruction program. Let us admit, if need be, 
that the mistakes were due to the fact that some of their 
leaders were bull-headed. The application of the iron 
hand did not tend to break their spirit, but to arouse 
sullen defiance. The choice of men sent down there, "car- 
pet-baggers," they call them, was not always the wisest, 

[199] 



and the result was just what could be imagined. I firmly 
believe that if Lincoln had been permitted to live he would 
have gone at it differently. He would have gone in the 
spirit of love and helpfulness, and with prayers to God 
to guide his hands. Eiding rough-shod over a people may 
conquer them physically, but it breeds hate. Then, the 
putting of the responsibility of government in the hands 
of the niggers, who are not by nature, training or heri- 
tage equipped for such a job, hasn't helped to untangle 
the mess. I'm glad Grant has been in the presidential 
chair. He has treated them with respect, as our coun- 
trymen, — mistaken, if that be the word to use, but enti- 
tled to treatment as Americans. Of course they can't 
see his great personality now, because of the blood of 
their wounds which fills their eyes. But he understands 
and measures the situation with his broad mind better 
than any other one at Washington. It will be a long 
time, many years probably, before the south can look at 
the north with any degree of tolerance, but the victors 
can afford to be magnanimous and patient." 

"Well, they have my sympathy," remarked Hayden, 
one of the proprietors of the drug store, who had been 
listening to the conversation. 

"They've got to have something more than sympathy," 
responded Clarke. "I remember when we refugee 'John- 
nies' were coming north, poverty stricken and miserable. 
We had to wait in Mattoon, Illinois, for the train to be 
made up for us to come to Indianapolis. The people gath- 
ered around and expressed sympathy for our forlorn ap- 
pearance. Finally, one spoke up: 'I've heard you peo- 
ple tell how much you sympathize with these folks. I 
sympathize with them to the extent of giving this much 
toward getting them something to eat. They're hungry.' 
And he shoved over a fifty-cent shinplaster. Others fol- 
lowed his example and we were fed. That's genuine sym- 
pathy. The south is impoverished. It hadn't a dollar in 
capital on which to start, when the war was ended, and 
desolation was all around them. When the north gets to 
taking its money down there and helping to rejuvenate 

[200] 



the country it will be practical sympathy. And besides 
it will be the best paying proposition from a financial 
standpoint that could be made. The south is wealthy in 
natural resources, but it needs help. It is just scratching 
the ground and practicing enforced economy until it gets 
on its feet again. It can't be reconstructed into the part 
it ought to play in the economy of the nation in a day 
or a year or a decade. The people have got to learn new 
habits of life, and old prejudices will have to give way. 
My heart is with them and my love goes out to them in 
their struggle." 



[201] 



CHAPTER XXV. 

"Two things in Arkansaw have proved valuable les- 
sons to me, the jay-bird mill and the razor-back hog. In 
fact I can lay my ambition to observations of the one 
and my resourcefulness to a contemplation of the other.' ' 

Thus spoke the postmaster. 

"What's a jay-bird mill?" came in a chorus from his 
fellow members of the town philosopher club. 

"A jay-bird mill! You don't mean to tell me that 
you fellows have lived all these years and not discovered 
what a jay-bird mill is! There's a lot of men in this 
town running jay-bird mills right now. In fact, I'm 
somewhat afraid I'm running one to some extent myself, 
but the razor-back hog is going to pull me out of it." 

"Great Scott! Don't talk in riddles," said Dan White. 
"I'll bite! Tell us about this jay-bird mill." 

1 ' While I was in Arkansaw during the war, rations were 
mighty scarce, and I used to have to go to mill seven 
miles away once a week with a bag of corn to be ground. 
The mill was a little one for a cent, with a capacity of 
only a few bushels a day. The hopper and stone were in 
the upper part of a cotton gin, and the power was fur- 
nished by four mules on the ground floor, and they had 
to be argued with all the time to get any speed out of 
them at all. When running full capacity the stream of 
meal would only be about as big as a lead pencil. Well, 
one day, after filling the hopper the miller went down 
stairs to chase the mules around, at the same time keep- 
ing his eye on the spout leading into the bag. Much to 
his surprise, though he heard the hum of the burrs, there 
wasn't any resulting golden meal. Wondering at this 
he investigated and found that an enterprising jay-bird, 
in quest of food for the family he had taken upon him- 
self to provide for, had stationed himself where the corn 

[202] 



bumped down the spout from the hopper, had wig-wagged 
home for Mrs. Jay and there they were catching the 
kernals on the fly as fast as they came along. A dinky 
mill that a jaybird could starve wouldn't go very far to- 
ward making a man a living, would it?" 

"Well, let's have the answer," persisted White. 

"The answer is that I want a bigger mill." 

"You're doin' well enough now, ain't ye?" said Tee- 
guarden. 

"I'm doin' the capacity of the mill, that's all, and the 
mill isn't big enough." 

"Do you mean the town's too small for you?" queried 
Bill Clark, who happened to be Clarke's brother-in-law. 

"No, sir, the town's all right, and the people are all 
right, but the territory's too small." 

"What you goin' to do, put an addition to the town?" 
said Bob Clark. 

"No, I'm going to follow the example of that greatly 
abused, but industrious animal, the razor-back hog of 
Arkansaw, and no history of life in that state before the 
war would be complete without at least a passing reference 
to him. Self-reliant, wise beyond his day and genera- 
tion, free from any kind of restraint, he foraged for his 
own provender and seldom went hungry. Down on the 
river bottom his long snout, backed by a strength and in- 
telligence his more pampered brethern never possessed, 
would search out and find the daintiest roots and herbs 
upon which to feast. Used to taking care of himself he 
was quick to scent danger, would follow his first instinct 
and run to escape trouble, but would fight and fight hard 
if cornered. In more than one contest with the hound 
dogs the latter were taught to have a wholesome respect 
for the dignity and rights of the former. 

"Each owner had a mark which was registered at the 
county seat, and severe punishment was in store for any- 
one who appropriated to his own use one of these roving 
swine that belonged to another. In the fall the owners 
were supposed to kill in proportion to their original 
droves, as the increase was rarely caught and branded. 

[203] 



Of course some killed over and some under their propor- 
tionate share, but there were plenty of hogs for all, and 
it made no difference. Later when the war came with its 
privations these hogs were much sought, for food was 
scarce. 

"Some of the old darkies were privileged to raise some 
hogs and chickens of their own, and the money from them 
they were allowed to keep. Invariably they brought 
their products to 'Marse Jeems,' as they called Colonel 
Clarke, my father. Sometimes they 'lifted' a shoat from 
their master's drove, and cooked it after night. When 
the war was on and the strings tightened about the slaves, 
so that their privileges were practically all taken away, 
including the right of ownership in their own hogs, they 
were compelled to dispose of even their own product un- 
der cover. 

"'Squire Walker's ' Uncle Tom,' one night, aroused 
father from his sleep about midnight: 

" 'Marse Jeems,' he said, 'Get up. I wants to see you- 
all.' 

"He had a nice fat shoat in his possession, which had 
been killed and dressed. , 

" 'Marse Jeems,' he said, 'I done killed one o' you-all 
shoats down on the bottom. Ah knowed you-all didn't 
had time to chase youah hawgs, an' I 'lowed I'd git him 
foh yuh. Ah know you-all mahk, kase hits a crop off 'en 
one ear an' a swallow fork in de lef.' 

" 'Marse Jeems' gave Uncle Tom a plug of tobacco and 
twenty dollars in Confederate money for butchering the 
pig, but it was noted afterwards that the old darkey had 
been careful to leave the ears with the trimmings, so that 
the Colonel was always somewhat in doubt as to having 
his own pig. 

"We were privileged to have one meal off that shoat, 
and one only. A party of Confederate soldiers, retreat- 
ing through the town the next day, conscripted the re- 
mainder, and the family returned to short rations., 

"Just before the blockade of the White River, an up- 
bound packet fleeing the Yankee gunboats, to lighten 

[204] 



itself dumped three hundred barrels of molasses on the 
Mount Adams landing. It laid there for months un- 
claimed until quite a number of the barrels were appro- 
printed to the use of the inhabitants of the village. The 
remainder were scrutinized by the hogs, and as the 
weather came to their assistance, opening a seam here 
and there, the wary animals used their snouts and feet 
to advantage until they had the barrels open and the 
liquid sweetness pouring in a flood upon the ground. 
Then high carnival reigned. They would fill themselves 
with the molasses, go down to the river and take in 
copious drafts of water, then return for more molasses, 
repeating the operation until they had reached the utmost 
limits of their capacity. Soon not a vestige remained of 
the jettisoned cargo, and the hogs returned to their usual 
mode of getting a living. 

''The lineal descendants of these hogs still remain in 
Arkansas, but their environment has been changed. They 
are long-nosed and gaunt, but the price of pork has gone 
up and up until 'pigs is pigs.' They receive care and 
attention their forefathers never dreamed of. As a re- 
sult they are not quite as resourceful, and depend more 
on their human owners for the necessary sustenance. The 
owners, in turn, recognizing their commercial value, are 
more anxious to have them fat and in good condition 
when butchering time comes. The stories of the old life 
before the war, handed down from father to son in hog- 
dom, must have thrilled the hearts of the piglets and 
made them yearn for the 'good old days.' " 

"Well," persisted Bill Clark, "as aforesaid, what's the 
answer?" 

"I've been doing some collecting for a farm machinery 
company down in Ohio, and they want me to go with them 
regularly. Of course I might put it the other way around, 
and say that I hired myself out to them in about the same 
way I 'accepted' a position in John Ghent's drug store, 
and you all know how I did that. And it's going to be 
a case of 'root hog, or die!' I've got to the end of the 
string in the way of possible income from my business 

[205] 



here in Colfax, and I've got to widen out or be content 
to make a bare living." 

"S'posin' you fail?" said Teeguarden. 

"Ill begin over again. A man that can't be down and 
out and bob up smiling for a new start isn't worth much." 

"What's all this g-g-got to do with the r-r-r-razor-back 
h-h-h-hog?" suggested Yes Jenkins. 

"Why, they trapse around the whole darn country to 
make their living, but the pork barrel is in the home 
town. Do you get me?" 

"We'll do our level best to get whatever you've got 
Bring lots of it for we've been feedin' you for a long 
time," said Hayden. 

"Who's going to run the Chronicle?" 

"Who's goin' to be postmaster?" 

The questions were shot at him from all sides, but 
Clarke told them Gil Hamilton would be over to take care 
of the Chronicle and the United States government would 
probably be able to find a successor without knocking at 
many doors. 

Bascom had been the local representative of a collec- 
tion agency. He had demonstrated his ability in the di- 
rection of teasing the reluctant dollars from the pockets of 
the slow-payers to such an extent that he had attracted 
the notice of one of the important concerns dealing in 
threshing machinery. A particularly hard collection, in 
which the machinery on which the company had a lien 
had been moved to another state, was made by him. He 
proved to himself also that he could handle business, and 
this gave him confidence to believe that he could safely 
enlarge his field of labor. To do it, however, he had to 
burn a good many bridges behind him, but he did it with 
faith that wherever the road led he would find success 
at the end. 

In the long consultation with his wife, before the move 
was made, she proved herself a helpmate indeed. She 
put her hand on his arm and looked into his face with a 
touch of the old sauciness, and said: 

"We'll back you, honey, the babies and I, and I know 

[206] 



you'll win out. But don't forget when you burn your 
bridges that we've got to be on the same side of the 
stream with you when the bridge goes down." 

"That's the only thing that's made me hesitate at all, 
Ma. But if you say ' Go ! ' I'll take the bit in my teeth and 
never even hesitate, not if the jockey falls off or the sulky 
smashes, till I'm under the wire. If some of these cusses 
had wives like mine they wouldn't be running jay-bird 
mills all their lives." 

"Jay-bird mills! What do you mean?" 

"Oh, I forgot! You belong to the great army of un- 
initiates, too, don't you? Well, I'll tell you what a jay- 
bird mill is." 

Then he proceeded to explain and draw his conclusions. 

"Well I don't care. Even if the miller's sack went 
empty the Jays had one good meal, didn't they?" was 
the wife's comment. , 

"I hadn't thought of that?" said Bascom. 

Just then Bill Clark and his wife came in. The news 
of the contemplated move had been promptly conveyed 
home and Elizabeth Watkins Clark insisted on going to 
see what Belle thought of it. If anybody thought that 
the Watkins family had not been reconciled to the fellow 
that grabbed one of the principal members of the house- 
hold and carried her off to his own cave, the greeting 
given by "Lib" to her brother-in-law would have set his 
mind at rest. 

"I'm glad Belle had the spunk to stick to you, brother. 
She showed rare judgment on two special occasions — 
when she came into the Watkins family and when she 
went into the Clarke family. I glory in your grit and 
I'm proud to own you for kinfolk. You ain't afraid to 
let go your moorings because some ship has been wrecked 
on the high seas. You've been a good brother to us all 
and like the good generous boy you are you have forgiven 
the things said and done in the past. I have tried to 
make up to you for the rough road you had to travel at 
the outset and try to show you that I believe in you. I 

[207] 



think I can see what this means. Larger and still larger 
things will be trusted to you until you reach your right- 
ful position. I'm glad sister Belle is your wife." 

"So am I, Lib. Because if it were some women I might 
not have the courage to strike out." 

"Oh, pshaw!" interposed Belle. "I can't see how any 
credit is due me for backing up my husband in trying to 
better himself. If a wife won't uphold the hands of her 
husband when he is fighting for a place in the world she 
doesn't deserve to have a husband. If he does me the 
honor to consult with me as a partner in the things that 
go to make up a man's work, the least I can do is to 
measure up my life beside him and, so far as I can, be 
what God intended a wife to be, a helpmeet." 

"Yes," said Bill, "we were discussing the subject of 
wives this afternoon and the jury was unanimous." 

"Unanimous as to what?" demanded Mrs. "Bill." 

"The question's privileged, Bill. You don't have to an- 
swer," said Bascom. 

"You mean," said Mrs. Bill, "he doesn't need to an- 
swer. I've heard men talk about their wives in public 
myself. You'd think they'd all married saintesses, and 
then if you'd follow them home you'd find 'em wonder- 
ing what had become of all the money they left with 'em, 
doled out like they was givin' to the preacher. Partner- 
ship! Huh! Sometimes it's more like a man and a hired 
girl, only the wife doesn't get regular wages like the girl 
would." 

"It isn't very often a 'silent partnership,' anyway, is 
it 'Lib'?" queried Bascom. 

"No, and it shouldn't be. And if the men would 
listen a little more to what their wives say, and consult 
with them on their plans and ambitions, there wouldn't 
be so many men carping about their wives' extravagance, 
either." 

"You and Belle ought to start a Society for the Bet- 
terment of the Treatment of Wives by their Husbands," 
said Bill. 

[208] 



"'Twouldn't be any use," said Belle. "You couldn't 
get a woman to acknowledge, outside the divorce court, 
that her husband wasn't a perfect angel. And the meet- 
ing would resolve itself into a Society for the Mutual Ad- 
miration of Our Husbands. No, we'll have to work out 
the problem, each in our own home and in our own way." 



i* [209] 



CONCLUSION. 

Why go further? Is not the picture sufficient? The 
development of the fundamentals of character have been 
shown. The filing, furbishing, smoothing and trimming 
which came to Clarke as a machinery salesman and after- 
wards as publisher of The American Thresherman is a 
story in itself. In the perspective he now knows that the 
privations and struggles of boyhood and young manhood, 
bitter at the time, were the very things that conspired to 
develop strength, character and determination. He was 
undaunted by failure and unchanged in nature by suc- 
cess. Positive in his conviction he was just as positive in 
acknowledging an error. Having opinions, he was not 
opinionated. Firm in his beliefs, he was tolerant. From 
abuse he learned patience and endurance; by ridicule he 
was taught to correct his mistakes; by failure he found 
the pathway to success; knowing every step of the way 
from abject poverty to competency, his desire for com- 
panionship brought him friends all along the path. Thus 
he grew in strength and self-reliance and upon his shoul- 
ders leaned more than one he had found fainting and 
weary by the roadside. 

From a busy and eventful life he gathered a store of 
information, to which he applied his own peculiar pro- 
cesses of reasoning and developed his own philosophy. 
For instance, at divers times he has given utterance to the 
following observations: 

Don't expect too much before you deserve it. There's only one 
pearl in a car-load of mussel shells. 

I have read in the Good Book, " Honor thy father, " but I never 
found the page where it called him "My old man." 

The boy who mows the lawn without being told, and who helps 
mother wash the dishes when she's tired, becomes the man the place 
seeks without the necessity of hiring a brass band. 

[210] 



Most of the skyscrapers in the city have farmer boys for tenants. 

When you do a good turn forget it, and some time way ahead, 
when you need it most and expect it least, your reward will be a hun- 
dredfold. 

I believe in God's promises literally. I've put them to the test 
a thousand times and won the capital prize at every drawing. 

Be truthful, not diplomatic. Diplomacy is a way nations have of 
lying to each other. 

None of us believe in fortune telling, but the gypsies still get 
silver in their palms. 

When a man does you a good turn pray for him, and also for sev- 
eral others just like him. 

Tf you are caught in the wrong, take your medicine like a man 
instead of trying to blame it on others. I don't believe in even 
taking a licking by proxy. 

If the north and south had only talked it over, as brother to 
brother, then held a few camp meetings and told the Lord about it, 
maybe they wouldn't have been so far apart. Look what a saving 
it would have been in monuments alone. 

The fleet of boats I found on the lower Mississippi dredging for 
musselshells to sell to the Yankee button-makers, was worth more to 
both sides than a fleet of gunboats to either. 

You don't get much advertisement out of your name on a grave- 
yard rock. 

The best liniment for stiff joints is kneeling down at night by 
yourself and whispering your thanks to Him who keeps the closest 
tabs on the orphan boy. 

"If I were a boy again, just for tonight" and my neighbor was 
mean enough to guard his melon-patch with a gun, I think I'd ex- 
postulate with him. 

There may be those who can get closer to God than a good Chris- 
tian mother standin ' up in meetin ' proclaiming her articles of faith, 
but I doubt it. 

As you go along life's pathway, plant a little flower here and 
there, in good deeds, and the fragrance wafted your way in the 
sundown of life will be the sweetest recollection of all. 

If you can't pray yourself, help pay those who make it their 
business. 

A man who will steal a bean from a two-cent jack-pot will stack 
the cards in a big game. 

You'll find human nature averaging about the same the world 
over. The politicians who decry the ' ' big interests ' ' weren 't in 
when the melon was cut. That's all. 

[211] 



It isn't always the glibbest tongue that means the most. I once 
committed sixty-five verses from the New Testament before break- 
fast one Sunday, and drew a prize for it; and then got scolded by 
Aunt Sally Kendall for fishing that very afternoon. 

The only thing the two could agree on during the war was that 
1 1 graybacks ' ' were worse than ' ' chiggers. ' ' 

I never thought the Yankees were stingier than our folks until I 
tried to eat their hardtack and found how skimp they were with 
shortening. 

A cross-eyed man and a " pepper-box " revolver are alike in one 
thing : Neither hits where it 's looking. 

I believe more in the Apostles' Creed than I do in living on corn 
bread. 

I don't like nigger dogs, even in Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

I don't want to stir up the past, but if I knew that Yank who 
bent my first single-barrel shotgun around a tree in '63 I'd make 
him read this book. 

Reviewing his busy life with a friend, one day, he said : 
" Without the experiences of my early life I could not 
have succeeded in some of the fields in which I have la- 
bored. I was broken loose and cast adrift, and I had to 
take the initiative. Go to the village and see the crowds 
of young men standing around with their hands in their 
pockets watching the trains go by, and you will find an 
idle squad that can be duplicated in every village the 
country over. They would welcome an opportunity of 
doing something for themselves, yet don't know how or 
haven't the ambition to create opportunities. They stand 
there day after day wishing that fortune would favor them 
with an open avenue for them to become useful men. In 
the war of '61 to '65 instance after instance can be re- 
called where boys who were considered the village loaf- 
ers, when given an opportunity to fight for their country, 
became the very pick of their regiments and the bravest 
of the brave. The war gave them an opportunity. The 
boy who has to fight his way against odds, or forge his 
way to the front against more than an even field is ex- 
cusable for being timid about tackling the job. The 
trouble is there are not enough men ready to encourage 
boys to become useful men. What you get in this busy 

[212] 



world you have to fight for. The fact is it isn't worth 
much unless you have wrested it from the world after a 
struggle in which you are both gainers. 

"When I applied for a local agency to sell farm ma- 
chinery on commission the people smiled at the audacity 
of my thinking I could sell goods of that kind. But I 
worked, early and late. I called to my aid every resource 
of my experience. When the roads were too bad to drive 
I rode horseback, and when the horse couldn't get through 
I walked. The result was that the man who smiled the 
broadest at my application paid me more money than 
any other man in his employ because I sold the goods 
and collected the money for them. Thus, my years of 
handling machinery on the farm, and knowing the far- 
mer's characteristics, my contact with these kind of peo- 
ple in the drug store and postofnce, and in publishing the 
village newspaper, and my life as a salesman, led me to 
believe I could run a farmers' magazine. 

"I launched the enterprise against the advice of every 
business friend, and safely stored away are the discour- 
aging letters which came as answers to mine setting forth 
my plans. In 1889 I had been broken down in health as 
the result of an attack of typhoid fever, and on the ad- 
vice of the doctor tried a change in climate. The com- 
pany for which I was working sent me to Wisconsin. 
Nine years later, on that memorable day in May when 
Dewey sank the fleet of Admiral Monte jo in Manila Bay 
the first issue of The American Thresherman appeared. 
Upon its front page was a picture of the battleship In- 
diana. The magazine is running yet and its advertising 
accounts and subscription list are evidences that I was 
right. I've had all the discouragements in the category, 
in every enterprise in which I ventured, and sometimes 
the other fellow has licked me and licked me hard. But 
the contest, instead of putting me down and out, has only 
nerved me to come again. 

"There are a whole lot of fellows giving you advice 
and holding up their hands to tell you 'not to do it,' 
when you plan to build in lines out of the common run, 

[213] 



and who are waiting around for a chance to say, 'I told 
you so,' if you fail. But these fellows only know 'six 
per cent and safe security,' and they never did a piece 
of original constructive economical work in their lives. 
If Columbus had had a charted sea Isabella wouldn't 
have sold her finger rings to help him and you would 
never have heard of him. Of course he got shoved in 
the bastile and thought the world ungrateful, the same 
as some of the rest of us have been given the grimy end of 
the poker when we tried to be public benefactors. I've 
been there myself. I organized a telephone company 
once to help a town get decent service. The end of the 
poker I got was not only dirty, it was hot. But I lived 
through it and after washing my hands and putting salve 
on the burn I finally got so I could talk about it ration- 
ally. 

"I haven't much use for a man who never was licked. 
He never had a fight. Most of what I've learned in the 
struggle of life has been pounded in with sledgehammer 
blows, and it won't come out. I've never rested content 
with what I've done. Old Alexander and I are alike in 
that way, I suppose, only he didn't know enough to start 
some other kind of a contest after he got through con- 
quering the world. He just sat down and blubbered. 
He didn't know how to do anything but spread desola- 
tion with an army. He was brought up wrong. If he'd 
been through the mill as a boy and had some experience 
besides wearing a crown and saying 'Sic 'em' to a bunch 
of corpse makers, he 'd have used his big army in farming 
and gone to inventing machinery to help the chaps plow, 
till and harvest the crops. Instead of that he went and 
got drunk like a common person and died of the ' snakes ' ; 
and they miscalled him Alexander the Great, when he 
never did anything that didn't call for brute force and 
carnage. 

"The old cuss ought to have been out in one of the 
old-time field trials of farm machinery. He 'd have known 
what real war was. I remember up at Fort Wayne in 
the 'eighties I came off victor with my machine. I didn't 

[214] 



do any Alexander act but I did one about as bad. I 
made a mistake. I discovered it afterwards and never 
made the same one again. I was so exuberant over my 
success that I went up and got a big mourning rosette 
with black and white streamers ten feet long attached 
to it. This I hung on the door of my defeated rival. I 
got one of the finest beatings I ever got in my life, and 
I've had a few. After I had pondered over the matter I 
came to the conclusion I deserved it. If the north had 
rubbed it in after she got through with the south it would 
have been the climax of cruelty. Old Alec would have 
rubbed it in and then some. 

"I lived through that most trying period of this na- 
tion's history. I've seen the land north and south 
drenched in the blood of its brave young men and re- 
united. I associated with soldiers on both sides. Who but 
Americans have given such proofs of bravery as that 
shown on the battlefields of Chickamauga, Stone River, 
Antietam, and all those other great contests of arms. 
Think of that memorable charge of Pickett's division, 
across the wheat fields and up Little Round Top to the 
stone fence, where it was possible to walk all the way on 
human beings who had fallen in the charge! Think of 
the Louisiana Tigers and the New York Zouaves ! Think 
of the untold misery that the war entailed, and realize 
the price paid 'that this nation should not perish from 
the earth!' 

"The flag on Sumter waves peacefully and trium- 
phantly over a reunited nation. Some who led the chiv- 
alrous armies of the south to defeat in '61 to '65 led the 
armies of the Union to victory in '98, when on land and 
sea the flower of southern manhood vied with that of 
the north in deeds of bravery. 

"Nearly all the old leaders on both sides, in the Civil 
War, have heard the last reveille and taps will soon be 
sounded for all survivors of the conflict. The hand of 
time has effaced the bitterness of the past. Down in 
Dixie are my two sisters with age creeping on them, 
while I am here in the north. By a strange train of 

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events my home and my heart is with the northern people 
who were father and mother to me in the days of my 
wretchedness, while these sisters were privileged to re- 
main with the south, be a part of its sorrow and witness 
its advance. In every way I can I show these two women, 
who loved me and prayed for me, that I love them just 
the same as though years had not separated us, nor my 
fortunes had not been cast across the once fateful line. 
In the old cemetery in Arkansaw lie my father and 
mother and grandfather and grandmother, and my broth- 
er and sisters. In the beautiful cemetery at Madison, 
Wisconsin, sleeps my son whose life was a benediction 
to me. Near him are two beautiful squares. One contains 
the remains of the boys in blue, in the other the bodies 
of the boys in gray who died among the snow drifts of 
Wisconsin as prisoners of war. The Daughters of the 
Confederacy presented a fitting monument to the south- 
ern boys sleeping there. It was dedicated by Lucius 
Fairchild Post, Grand Army of the Republic, one beauti- 
ful autumn day. Living and dead my ties are north and 
south and peace reigns. Thank God! Peace reigns !" 

THE END. 



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